


Darcy the Nazgul

by CallistoMoon



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Boromir Lives, F/M, Great River Anduin, Horses, Humor, Lothlórien, Minas Tirith, Modern Boy in Middle Earth, Modern Girl in Middle Earth, Modern Weird Librarian in Middle Earth, Moria | Khazad-dûm, Nazgul - Freeform, Orthanc - Freeform, Rivendell | Imladris, pov original characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-09-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22981651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CallistoMoon/pseuds/CallistoMoon
Summary: Darcy Bragg has lost her boyfriend and her job, and now she’s lost her car. Even worse, the beat-up Ford contained her son’s beloved "Lord of the Rings" annotated trilogy. So Darcy takes 10-year-old London to the nearest library to replace the book. But the library is strange and the librarian mysterious. “Our patrons don’t read the books, they LIVE them,” the librarian says as he wrings water out of his shirt. “Just don’t pick Jacques Cousteau.”And so Darcy and London find themselves on the Road to Bree with three protein bars and the haziest of instructions. Darcy's ex-boyfriend bursts into the library minutes later, looking for her, and bullies the librarian into following Darcy and London. Those two end up in Minas Tirith, and although the librarian has never read the books, he's convinced that Boromir is the hero.Darcy and London, meanwhile, are soon separated, each trying to travel to the trilogy’s end. London is living his greatest fantasy, while Darcy just bumbles her way south, impersonating a Nazgul and wrecking the plot by rescuing Boromir. The ex-boyfriend's efforts to locate them just make everything worse. Is a happy ending for Middle-Earth even possible anymore?
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel
Comments: 19
Kudos: 33





	1. The Book Report

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story of a single mother who finds herself in Middle-Earth, although she's never read the books. I hope you enjoy Darcy, who can be fairly snarky and resourceful. She's a civil engineer by trade, and has strong opinions about proper drainage ditches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darcy: "Do you know what repossessed means?”
> 
> London: “Sure. It’s when you find a ring and wear it to play tricks on people but then it takes over your mind and you strangle your annoying cousin.”

London Bragg stood in front of his fifth-grade class and opened his folder.

“My book report,” he said, “is on _The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_.”

Everyone groaned.

“Cheater! You can’t do the same book twice!” yelled a sporty kid in the front row. His books were all about athletes bouncing back from horrible injuries or diseases. Like that mattered.

“Yeah,” said another boy. He was only friendly when London brought homemade muffins to school. “You did that book last week.”

“That was _The Two Towers_ ,” London said.

“The week before, then,” said a girl in the back. She was working through the _Little House on the Prairie_ books.

“That was _The Fellowship of the Ring_.”

“Don’t you read anything else?” asked Friend On Muffin Day. “Those books are boring.”

“They’re not boring!” London shouted, hands clutching his folder. “These are the best books ever!”

“Now, Class,” said Mrs. Weemers, who never saw kids as individuals, just a big, hulking mass to be praised and punished together. “We all would like to hear London’s report, wouldn’t we, Class?”

“No, we wouldn’t,” said Sporty Kid.

“That’s enough, Class. Go ahead, London.”

Class groaned again. London smoothed out his now bent-up red folder and read:

“ _The Return of the King_ by J.R.R. Tolkien.

"The _Return of the King_ is a really good book. The hero goes to Mount Doom to …”

“Mount Do-o-o-o-o-m,” moaned the Friend on Muffin Days. Class laughed.

London kept going. “The hero’s friends are fighting the evil sorcerer’s Ring Creeps and this forest ranger steals a ship with his ghost friends and there’s a big battle and the Top Creep fights this girl and she goes this and the Creep goes that, and this little dude stabs …” London trailed off, seeing his classmate’s wide eyes. “Then the hero throws the sorcerer’s gold ring into a volcano and they all live happily ever after.”

“Thank you, dear,” said Mrs. Weemers. “You may sit down.”

“I’m not finished,” London said. Class groaned again. “I didn’t say why I liked it.”

“’Cuz it’s stupid,” said the _Little House on the Prairie_ girl.

“Don’t say ‘stupid,’ Class,” said Mrs. Weemers.

“This book is really cool,” London insisted. “There’s these guys called hobbits with a nice country, but it all gets totally trashed and they have to fix it. There’s these dwarves who live in a mountain but these green pointy guys took it over and killed almost everybody and woke up a big fire guy and he killed the rest. There’s this other bad sorcerer who beats up on trees but the trees got him back and there’s this little weird guy who used to be OK but a ring burned up his mind and he died. There’s also lots of blood and fighting, too.”

“My, my,” Mrs. Weemers said. 

London looked up from his folder. “Oh, there’s stuff about honor and courage and kindness, too. I usually skip that stuff.”

He read on: “ _The Return of the King_ also shows that doing one bad thing doesn’t make a person evil. And that people shouldn’t make assumptions about people and decide they don’t like them for no reason.”

London gave his classmates a hard look to let that last part sink in.

The bell rang. Class cheered and ran out the door, ignoring Mrs. Weemers’ calls to help clean up. London grabbed his backpack and trumpet case and dashed out the nearest exit.

Mom was by the school garden, peering over the wooden fence. London liked gardens, but the principal didn’t and was always telling the Garden Club that the yard was too dirty.

“Those flowers are dying,” Mom said. “I don’t think they get enough soil.”

London just looked at her. Something was wrong. Mom looked the same: black jacket, black boots, long blonde hair and black-rimmed glasses. But she usually parked in front of the school to pick him up. She didn’t hang out by the garden.

“Where’s the car?” he asked.

“I thought it would be fun to take the bus home.”

This was bad. Mom didn’t believe in public transportation. She was from Detroit and said it was every American’s duty to drive every day and never buy a Suburu. 

“Seriously, where’s the car? Mom?”

His mother was striding along the sidewalk and he had to trot to catch up, clutching the straps of his backpack.

“London,” she said, “do you know what repossessed means?”

“Yeah.”

She stopped and turned to face him, shoving her glasses up in her hair. “You do?”

“Sure. It’s when you find a ring and wear it to play tricks on people but then it takes over your mind and you strangle your annoying cousin—”

“What?! What are you talking about?” Mom demanded. “I’m talking about the car!”

“The car?” London was confused.

“Yes. Here, sit down.” They sat on the curb next to a yellow No Dog Poop sign. “Honey, the Ford was repossessed today.”

“But cars don’t wear rings.”

His mother stared.

“Well, they don’t,” he said.

Her mouth opened and closed, then her face brightened. “Look, London, one of your little friends is calling to you.”

The _Little House on the Prairie_ girl was standing across the street. “Hey, London!” she shouted. “Your book is still stupid!”

Mom frowned, then turned to him again. “London, you know how I lost my job last month.”

London nodded. Mom was an engineer working on San Francisco’s Bay Bridge, which had a new problem every day. You’d think that meant job security, since somebody had to figure out how to fix all the problems, but Mom’s firm went bankrupt instead and Mom was having trouble finding a new one because the Bay Bridge was “sapping her resume.”

“And Kirk’s business isn’t doing very well,” Mom went on.

London shrugged. Kirk was Mom's ex-boyfriend and his businesses never did very well. This time he’d been selling toaster cozies — little cloth covers that made toasters look like national monuments. Mom’s toaster looked like Mt. Rushmore. That was one of the reasons his Mother kicked Kirk out a few months ago—not because of Mt. Rushmore, but because Kirk couldn’t hold down a real job, which Mom said made him a loser. London didn’t agree with that; Kirk was the closest thing he had to a dad. London was pleased when Mom’s firm went bust because then she and Kirk were both losers now and they could get back together. But it didn’t work out that way; Mom was so crabby now that London had meet Kirk on the corner for the Kirk-London time that Mom had promised.

“I’ve, um, had trouble with the car payments,” Mom went on. “The bank took the car today.”

“What? They took it?” London looked around wildly, as if he could see their Fiesta parked on the street. “Took it where? When?”

“This morning.”

London jumped up. “We have to get it back! Come on!” he tugged on Mom’s hand until she stood up.

“I know you liked the car, London, but –”

London was panicked. “Mom, my book was in there!”

“What?”

“My book! _The Lord of the Rings: The Complete Annotated Trilogy_! I left it in the backseat!”

Mom sighed. “We’ll get you another book.”

“Can we go to the library?”

“We don’t have time to go to the library, we have to pack because we’re moving out of our—”

“Look, there’s a library right there.” London pointed across the street. A skinny brick building shoved between two houses had a blue sign: SAN FRANCISCO PUBLIC LIBRARY: CHILDREN’S NEW WORLDS BRANCH.

“Huh. I never noticed that library before,” Mom said. “New Worlds branch?”

“Let’s see if they have _The Lord of the Rings: The Annotated Trilogy_!” London was already sprinting across the street.

“London, look both ways! Wait, we don’t have time!”

But London didn’t listen. He ran up the narrow steps and pushed open the library’s single white door. He rushed in, skidding to a stop and dropping his trumpet case. The library was a single dusty room with three long wooden tables. London looked to his right and saw what he wanted: a chubby man wearing a S.F. Public Library badge.

London ran up to the checkout desk. “Hello?”

The librarian was kneeling next to his desk, laying brown paper towels on the floor. He looked like he’d just climbed out of a swimming pool. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead and his wet t-shirt stuck to his big stomach. A dripping hoodie hung from a chair.

“Hello,” London said again.

The man jumped, nearly dropping his roll of paper towels. “What? Uh … hello.”

“I want to take out a book,” London said.

“Are you sure?” The man shuffled closer on his knees and lowered his voice to a whisper. “It’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

The librarian nodded. “You don’t take the books out here. They … uh … they take you out.”

Mom burst through the door. “London, I told you to stop, you didn’t even look before crossing the—” she looked down. “This floor is all wet.”

“Uh, sorry,” the librarian said. He staggered to his feet, nearly slipping and falling into a puddle. He ripped a paper towel off the roll and wiped his face. Then he turned to London.

“Ask me what’s my favorite children’s book,” he said. “Go on, ask me.”

“What’s your favorite children’s book?”

“It used to be _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea_ ,” the librarian said. He pulled a wiggly white fish out of his pocket and tossed it behind the desk. “Not anymore. Take my advice. Stay away from giant squids.”

London just nodded.

“So, young man,” he went on, “what book would you like to … uh … enter?”

“Enter?” London asked.

“Just get the book,” Mom said, looking at her phone. “We have to get home and pack.”

“Pack for what?” London asked.

The librarian cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” London said to him. “I’d like _The Lord of the Rings: The Complete Annotated Trilogy_."

“Author?”

“J.J.R. Tolkien.”

The wooden cabinet behind the man quivered and a drawer shot out, making London jump. The librarian pulled out a white card and handed it to London.

“What’s this?” London asked.

“A catalog card,” the librarian said.

“Is your computer down?” London asked.

“Library card, please.”

London pulled at Mom’s sleeve and she sighed and got out her card. They watched the librarian write the number on a clipboard and stamp London’s catalog card. He turned it over and slid it to Mom.

“Sign here, please," he said. "And here. And initial this. Oh, and this is pink form is … uh, the waiver of physical peril.”

Mom began signing. “Physical peril?” she asked. “This city is really nuts with regulations. And you really need a computer.” She slapped down the pen and took out her phone again.

The librarian handed London the catalog card and library card. “Just go through the checkout door … uh, there.”

He pointed to a wooden door marked “checkout” opposite the desk. It was covered in scratches and burns and water dripped from the doorknob.

Mom looked up. “Where’d that door come from?”

London didn’t care. That must be where they kept the books. “Come on, Mom!” he yelled.

“Stop!” the man cried suddenly. London and Mom turned to stare at him. The librarian’s round face was red and he kept fiddling with his t-shirt, twisting it so more water dripped on the floor.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, this _Lord of the Rings_ … is it … is it a nice book?”

“It’s a great book,” London said. “This little Frodo guy finds a ring and …”

“But not dangerous, right?” the guy persisted. “There’s, uh, no blood, right? Violence? Bad weather? No messy, gory deaths?”

Now Mom was looking at London, which made him nervous. If he told the truth about “The Lord of the Rings” she might not let him check it out.

“It’s fine, really,” London said. 

“Really? Because …” The librarian tore off another paper towel and wiped the water off his face, or maybe it was sweat.

“Maybe you should pick something else,” he said. “How about … uh … _Little Women_?”

London and Mom just stared.

“There are … other library branches,” he went on. “Or maybe you’d like to watch TV instead?”

London grabbed Mom’s hand and tugged her toward the wooden door.

“How about a nice video game?” the librarian called.

London just laughed and Mom gave the librarian a last, doubtful glance as they went through the doorway.

***

“This is the wrong door.” Mom sounded crabby now. “We’re outside again.”

London looked around, still clutching the card. They stood on a low ridge covered with trees above a wide road made of packed earth.

“Wow, just when you think you know a neighborhood,” Mom was saying. “I had no idea there was a park back here. Come on, let’s go back inside.”

“I don’t see a door, Mom.”

“It’s right here – hey, where’s the door?”

The door was gone. The library’s brick walls were gone. There were only grass and trees and the long, brown road just below them. Mom frowned and began pushing at branches. “The door must be here somewhere.”

“Um, Mom?” A dark figure had emerged from the trees below, leading an equally black horse along the road. The figure was tall and swathed in a cloak with a deep hood. London could hear the clopping of hooves and boots and jangling of a harness. The hood swiveled from side to side and London swore he heard … sniffing.

Mom had gone further into the trees behind London and now she popped out again. “I can’t find the door anywhere. I can’t understand it. Hey …” She’d noticed the horseman. “A horse trail. Neat.” Mom liked horses; she’d grown up on a Northern California ranch.

London found himself looking at the white card in his hand. The librarian had been soaking wet, with a fish in his pocket. He’d mentioned _Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea._ The librarian had laughed at the idea of reading. He talked about entering a book. He’d said it was dangerous. The words on the card were clear: “ _The Lord of the Rings_ —the complete annotated trilogy.”

Enter the book, the librarian had said.

“Dangerous,” he’d said.

“Mom,” London said carefully. “Mom, we should go back into the trees.”

“I can’t find the door,” Mom said. “Damn fancy architects: ‘I know, let’s make a back door that looks like a tree!’” Mom said architects were always unreasonable.

“Let’s just take that road down there to the park entrance,” Mom went on. “We’ll circle back. I want a word with that librarian.” She began striding down the ridge, her boot heels sliding on the grass.

“Mom!” London followed, but his mom had a good head start, and her legs were much longer. She’d reach the road first and …

The rider’s hood stopped moving. Did he see her? London’s sneakers scrabbled for traction as he slid down the hill. His mother was at the bottom now and was walking briskly toward the road.

“Mom!” London shouted again, almost crying. He tripped and fell flat on his face. He couldn’t see anything. He tried to yell, but his mouth was full of dirt now. It was too late. Coldness invaded his chest and mind. “Mom!” he cried silently, feeling the tears on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Darcy's ex meets the weird librarian.


	2. Pelennor Fields

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned: “Where is the screaming? Where is the dying?”

Kirk squinted up at the little brick building, his arms full of broken-down cardboard boxes.

Funny, he didn’t remember any library here. He was glad to get Darcy’s text, though. It was short, but polite. Progress. This was his afternoon with London; maybe he could help them move. He’d even brought boxes.

He dragged the boxes up the library stairs and pulled them through the door. Kirk was a big guy, played football in high school, but there was no easy way to carry boxes. Panting, he looked up to see the librarian looking at him with disapproval.

“Hey,” Kirk said. “I’m looking for a woman.”

“Aren’t we all,” said the librarian.

“Funny.” Kirk peered at the staff badge hanging from the librarian’s neck. “Ned, is it? I’m looking for my girlfriend.” _Ex-girlfriend, you idiot. She kicked you out, remember?_

Kirk shook his head and refocused on the librarian. “She’s about yay tall, long blonde hair, wears a black jacket.”

The librarian gave him a sharp look. “Does she have a son — red hair, freckles?”

“Yeah, that’s London.” Kirk looked around the stone walls and wooden tables in the nearly empty room. “New library branch, huh? Still moving in? Can we have your boxes when you’re done?”

“No, it’s all ready,” the chubby guy said.

Kirk blinked. He wasn’t exactly a well-read man, but he knew what a library looked like. “So where are the books?”

“There aren’t any books.”

Kirk threw down the last box and sucked at a paper cut. “That’s what my tax dollars are going for? Libraries without books? I ought to … hey! My boxes!”

Water was soaking through the cardboard. Kirk tried to gather them up, but it was too late. “Great,” he said. “Just great.”

Abandoning the boxes, Kirk stepped over to the librarian’s desk. “Ned, is it?” he asked, looking at the man’s badge. “Hey, Ned. So tell me. Where are they?”

“The woman and boy? They are not here,” the librarian said.

“Where did they go?”

“Where you cannot follow,” Ned said, and turned his back.

“What?” Kirk reached across the desk to grab Ned’s arm. “I’m talking to — hey, how’d you get so wet?”

“Deep-sea diving,” Ned said.

Kirk yanked at the neck of the librarian’s sopping wet shirt, pulling him over the desk.

“You’d better start talking, buddy,” he growled. “Where … are … they?”

“ _The Lord of the_ _Rings_ by J.R.R. Tolkien,” Ned said quickly. “Trilogy, annotated, fantasy, copyright 1954.”

“What? That book of London’s?”

Ned licked his lips and seemed to brace himself. “They have entered the book.”

_Oh, boy. This guy’s been hanging out in a library too long._

“That’s nice,” Kirk said soothingly. “Very nice. Will they be back soon?”

“I do not know,” Ned said. “They have to follow the story to the end.”

Kirk tried to stay calm. Darcy always said violence was not the answer. “Of course, Ned. So, why don’t we go there now?”

“You can’t. The book has been checked —” Suddenly a drawer popped out of the cabinet behind Ned and Kirk released the librarian’s shirt.

“Neat trick,” Kirk said, wiping his wet hand on his jeans.

“You can’t enter the book,” Ned said. “See, there’s no card … oh, there it is! How odd!” He held up a white card.

“Lovely,” Kirk said, still patient. He took the card. “Let’s check out the nice book and then I’ll find my family and we’ll go. Okay?” _My family, no matter what Darcy says._

“Um, do you have a library card?” Ned asked.

Of course Kirk didn’t. “Why don’t you check it out, friend?”

“Oh no, I can’t!” Ned squeaked. “Not again! It’s too dangerous!”

Kirk just smiled. “Sure you can. Don’t be scared. It’s a very nice story. Lots of magic and a beautiful white city with big purple flags …”

“You’ve read it?”

“I saw one of the movies. Well, some of it, anyway.” Kirk frowned, trying to remember. London had nagged him for weeks until he finally took the kid one weekend.

“Weird movie,” Kirk said finally. “There was an elf swinging on ropes on an elephant—oh, and a great part with this blonde chick fighting a black knight on a bat …”

“A battle? Oh no!” Ned cried. “We’ll be killed!”

“Oh no, you’ll love it. It’ll be great.” Kirk picked up the clipboard. “Look, I’ll even fill out your forms here.” He started scribbling. “Where do I put this stamp?”

“Uh, on the card,” Ned said. “Wait, no! Don’t stamp the card!”

Kirk stamped the card, then took Ned by the arm again, gently this time but firmly, and looked around. There was only one other door besides the entrance, a wooden one marked “Checkout.”

“Did they go in there?” Kirk asked.

“No! We aren’t prepared! I don’t have a sword!” Ned cried.

Kirk pulled the librarian toward the door. “It’s okay. Come on, Ned, let’s visit the nice book.”

Ned struggled, but it was no use, Kirk was much stronger. He pulled Ned through the door.

***

Kirk found himself face-down on thick, sweet-smelling grass. He pushed himself up to see Ned curled into a fetal position, hands firmly clamped over his eyes.

“The battle!” the librarian shrieked. “Blood! Death! Ohhhh!”

Kirk staggered to his feet. He stood in the center of a huge valley, sun shining directly overhead as if it were noon. And there, carved out of the mountain range bordering the valley was a white city, sparkling in the sun. Flags topped its many towers, snapping in the brisk wind. Some of the flags were black with silver markings, others white with black markings. The city’s top was some kind of a park, shaped like a triangle and sticking out into the valley like the prow of a ship.

“I know this city,” Kirk said softly. It reminded him of the white city in that _Lord of the Rings_ movie. But this was all different. He spun around, releasing the librarian, and there were more mountains, and there was a river, leading out to the sea. Finally, he saw a third mountain range, or what he assumed was a mountain range. He couldn’t really see it, it was covered in clouds, a dark storm front. Beyond the brooding clouds he thought he saw a red flame dancing far away.

He raised a hand to shade his eyes from the glare. Wow, this was some great technology. Fake grass, 3D images on the walls … You really felt like you were in the book. That was San Francisco for you—Kirk bet some rich tech founder donated this new library.

Kirk bent down and shook the librarian’s shoulder. “Ned! Get up!”

Ned stopped groveling in the grass and rolled over. “What? What?” He sat up, looking around at the peaceful scene.

“Where is the screaming?” he asked. “Where is the dying?”

Kirk didn’t know. He remembered this setting, though, from the movie. Amazing. This was the battlefield where swords rang, and elves swung and weird black guys on bats flew around and waved maces. This wasn’t some fancy plaster model developed in a California studio and overlaid against some New Zealand mountains. He heard the sighing of the grasses and felt the sun beating down warm on the back of his neck, the cool breeze on his face.

Kirk looked down at the little white card in his hand. _The Lord of the Rings_. So there was the city and here was the battlefield and he could only guess that the creepy fogbank contained the bad guys. So why wasn’t anything happening?

“No battle, no battle,” the librarian muttered, sitting up. His wet hair stuck out wildly, covered in grass. “No war, no blood …”

“Of course there’s no blood,” Kirk said. “Where are Darcy and London?”

“Ow!” Ned leaped up, clutching his arm, staring at the black-feathered stick poking out of it. “What is that?” he screamed.

It looked like an arrow to Kirk, but it couldn’t be—

“You lied!” Ned shouted. “There is a battle here! We’re going to die! Aaaaaaeeeee!”

Kirk just grinned. The way Ned was jumping around, he obviously wasn’t seriously wounded.

“I am fallen,” Ned suddenly moaned, collapsing again. The grass crunched under his weight. “The bright sky grows dark and I enter my Valhalla, felled by a battle wound.”

“There’s no battle!” Kirk snapped, his good humor fading fast.

Ned turned onto his back, waving his arm so that the arrow’s feathers flapped in the breeze.

Kirk knelt down on one knee and resisted the urge to grab the librarian’s collar. Violence was _not_ the answer. “There’s no battle!” he repeated.

“Oh yeah?” Ned asked, still lying on his back. His arm seemed to be functioning just fine.

“Where did this arrow come from, then?” the librarian asked. “I am reminded of the Russian diplomat’s famous line to Hitler when the dictator insisted the English were finished. ‘If so, why are we in this bunker?’ the Russian had asked. “And whose are these bombs which fall?’”

“There aren’t any bombs here,” Kirk snapped. “And you’re not felled by any wound. Get up, goddamn it!”

Ned finally realized he was in more danger from Kirk than from random arrows, and sat up quickly. His dark hair stuck up all over his head and his blue blazer was covered with grass stains.

“Now listen to me, Ned,” Kirk said, trying to stay calm. “I don’t know where that arrow came from, but do you see a battle here? There is no battle, nobody is ….”

His voice trailed off, because a pack of horsemen was galloping toward them, dressed in bright armor, black-and-white banners streaming. Their leader was tall and thin with curly dark hair and a pointed beard.

“Why do you linger on the Fields of Pelennor?” the captain asked in a haughty voice. “Do you hope to avoid the Shadow by cowering in the grass like rabbits?”

“My Lord, this one is struck,” murmured another horseman.

“This is part of the show, right?” Kirk asked Ned.

“It’s not a show,” Ned hissed. “We have entered the book!”

“Book?” the Captain asked. “What book is this?”

“ _The Lord of the Rings_ ,” Kirk said.

The entire company recoiled. All color left the captain’s face.

“Mordor spies,” a soldier whispered, and the rest of the horsemen murmured agreement.

“Silence,” the captain commanded and all whispering stopped immediately. The captain leaped down from his horse and looked Kirk in the eye. “You are a traveler from foreign parts?”

“Perhaps he has news from the west, t’where your brother departed, my Lord,” another horseman said.

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Do you come from the west, good sirs?”

Kirk turned an agonized eye to Ned, who nodded quickly.

“Yes, my lord,” Ned said, gathering his wits. “There is much trouble there.”

“As there is everywhere,” the captain sighed. “What brings you to Gondor? Do you wish to enter our service?”

“Sure,” said Kirk. Ned’s eyes popped, and he shook his head violently. The captain appeared not to notice. “I’m Kirk Morris.”

“And you?” the captain demanded of Ned.

“Ned Delemarre … my lord,” Ned said nervously.

“It is done, then,” the captain said. “You will journey with us to Osgiliath, where the shadow masses east of the river.” His eyes were a clear blue and very cold. “I am Lord Faramir, son of Denethor, the Lord Steward. Welcome to the service of Gondor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: London and Darcy hit the Road.


	3. On the Road

“London?”

London raised his head. His mother knelt over him, alive, her face concerned. “Honey, are you all right?”

“The … the Rider …” he stammered.

“I missed him, darn it,” she said. “I saw you fall and wanted to make sure you were all right. You shouldn’t run down a hill that way, London. You’re so impulsive.”

London looked over his mother’s shoulder at the road, now empty. “Where is the Rider?”

“He went that way,” she said, pointing to the road leading into another clump of trees. “Oh London, just look at your face.” She pulled a tissue out of her small backpack. “And your hands are filthy.”

“Mom!” London grabbed her wrist. “You have to listen to me. We’re not in San Francisco! We’re in _The Lord of the Rings_! That was a Nazgul!”

“That’s it,” Mom said, standing. “Get up, London. Maybe it’s a good thing you lost that book. You read it way too much and it can’t be good for you—”

London suddenly remembered the catalog card and pulled it out of his jeans pocket. It was still damp.

“Look, Mom — look at the other side!”

Mom peered at the silvery letters, then began reading aloud:

_Welcome to your book world!_

_Why read your favorite book when you can LIVE it? Meet the characters, follow the story!_

_The San Francisco Public Library does not guarantee the safety or comfort of a book world. Visitors are urged to bring any necessary equipment or weapons. Follow the story and keep this card to exit the book world at the ending._

_Warning: Do not interfere with the book’s plot, as that may change the story and prevent a safe exit._

_Best of luck on your new adventure — in a book!_

Mom frowned. “A book world? What is this, some kind of event? ‘Be Your Favorite Literary Character Day?’” She looked around. “This can’t be real. Hey, there’s another guy.”

London fell flat in the grass, dragging Mom with him. “Lie down!” he hissed.

“What? A Nozzle?”

“Nazgul!” London hissed.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Neither London or Mom could resist raising their heads a little bit to see. It was definitely a Black Rider, London knew, this one in more of a hurry. The harness jangled harshly and the black horse’s hooves kicked up dust on the road as the horseman raced along the Road and into the trees.

“None of this makes any sense,” Mom said, scrambling up to her knees. “But those guys give me the creeps.”

She sat up and looked at the catalog card again. “A book world. Is this some kind of virtual reality?”

“We’re not wearing headsets,” London pointed out. The sporty kid from his class was always bragging about his Ocular Rift.

Mom was biting her lip, thinking. “Maybe we should go back to the trees again, try to find that door back to the library.” Then she shook her head. “No, we’ll stick with my original plan. We’ll follow this path out of the park and circle back. Come on.”

She stood and stalked toward the road. “Come on, London!”

“Mom, be careful,” London said, trotting after her. “We don’t want to meet the Nazgul.”

“Why not?” Mom asked, not breaking stride.

“They’re evil, Mom. They were mighty kings, but the Sauron gave them rings of power and turned them into evil spirits—Mom!” Mom was still walking, not being careful at all. Great. Parents. They never listened.

This clump of trees was pretty small, and they emerged to find themselves on high ground again. The road continued on toward a tall hill, dominating the horizon. The afternoon was wearing on, he realized. Shadows were lengthening. Lights began to pop up in the high, dark hill.

“That’s Bree-hill!” London said suddenly. “And this is the East Road.” He could now see low, foggy hills to their left. “Those, those are the barrow-downs!”

“What are barrow-downs?”

“The graves of evil ghosts that want to trap you and keep you—”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Evil kings, evil ghosts. No more fantasy books for you, young man. From now on, you’re reading _The Bobbsey Twins_.”

“The what twins?”

“Bobbsey. Four kids live in a small town and solve mysteries. And they’re always home for dinner.”

London groaned. “Sounds boring.”

“It’s better than this,” Mom said. “There aren’t any evil Neezles.”

“Nazguls, Mom.”

“Right, that’s what I said.” She heaved a long sigh and looked around. “This can’t be happening.”

She sat on the grass and London went to sit beside her. All this open land and sky made this city kid a little nervous.

“London,” Mom said seriously, “Listen. Books are not worlds. Books are paper. They live only in your imagination. You cannot enter a book. This has got to be a private park or something.”

“Then where’s Sutro Tower?” The city’s huge TV tower was always visible in their neighborhood.

“Covered in fog.”

“There isn’t any fog.”

That threw Mom for a second. There was almost always fog in late afternoon. They could see the sun hovering above the pointed mountains, but no streaks of lumpy fog in the sky. London shivered.

“Mom, we have to go to Bree.”

“Yeah, yeah.” His mother stood and brushed off her jeans. We’ll follow that road and you’ll see. It’s just a park. A really big … secret … creepy park with no people.”

“Except the Nazgul.”

“Yeah, them,” Mom said, rolling her eyes.

After they’d walked the better part of an hour, with no sight of the city or people, Mom was forced to rethink her position. She kept frowning at Bree-hill which grew larger with every step, and even she couldn’t convince herself it was Corona Heights. Her face grew grim, and when they reached Bree’s closed gate, the afternoon sun low in the sky, she was positively scowling.

A man came out of the gatehouse holding a lantern against the long shadows. “What do you want and where do you come from?” he asked gruffly.

“We would like to stay at the inn,” London piped up.

The man squinted. “Is that a hobbit there? Who are you? You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”

“Our names are our own,” said London, remembering Frodo’s line from the movie.

“You would keep a lady out on such a night?” asked Mom quietly. London looked at her, impressed.

“Oh! Excuse me, my lady.” The gatekeeper quickly unlatched the doors. “It’s my job to ask questions. There’s queer folk about. You must have come a long way on foot.”

“Which way is the Prancing Pony?” London asked excitedly.

“Straight ahead.” The gatekeeper opened the gate and let them in.

“How did you know what to say, Mom?” London asked.

Mom didn’t answer; she was too busy staring at Bree, the half-timbered houses, the villagers in cloaks. She grabbed hold of London’s backpack strap and yanked him behind a tall wooden fence.

“Where are we, London?” she asked in a low, scary voice.

“It’s like the librarian said, we’re in the book,” London said. This was great.

Mom released him and knocked on the wooden planks of the gate. “This must be some new technology. Apple’s virtual reality. _Hell_ of a job.”

“Come on, Mom.” London tugged at her arm. “Let’s go to the Prancing Pony?”

He finally got her moving again, but Mom still kept stopping to stare about. “They could use some better ditches,” she said, pointing. “This place must practically sink into the mud when it rains.”

The inn looked like the biggest building in the village, three stories high, with a wide arch leading into a courtyard. A lantern hung from the arch, giving off a friendly light in the deepening shadows. Mom shook her head at the arch, then looked nervously at the front door. They could hear a chorus of male voices, shouting and singing, but the tune sounded bright and cheery and the laughter full of merriment. Still, they hesitated, then Mom took London’s hand, walked up the steps, and boldly pushed open the heavy door.

The door nearly knocked down the man standing behind it, a fat man with a red face holding a tray of mugs. He wore a white apron and a harried expression.

“Good evening, Mistress,” he said, bowing as if women in jeans and black leather jackets turned up every day. “And you, little master. What might you be wanting?”

“We’d like a room, please,” Mom said, playing along.

“You’re Mr. Butterbur!” cried London, amazed.

“That I am.” The fat man wiped his sweating forehead. “It’s been a night, and no mistake. I have perhaps one room, too small for two, unless we put a pallet on the floor.”

Mom sighed. “That would be fine, Mr. Butterbar.”

“Might I ask your names?”

“Darcy Bragg,” Mom said. “And this is my son, London.”

“Of course, of course, thought he might be a hobbit at first!” Butterbur laughed heartily.

“Have you seen any hobbits today?” London asked eagerly. “From the Shire?”

“The Shire? Goodness, no,” the innkeeper said. “You don’t see many Shire hobbits heading East.”

“Could we have some dinner, please?” London asked. He was always hungry.

“Dinner?” the innkeeper looked at him strangely. “Dinner was hours ago, my lad.”

“My son means supper, of course.” Mom said, still playing along.

“Ah yes. Here,” the innkeeper led them to a door where there was a little room with a table and chairs and a big fireplace. “Here’s one of my parlors. Rest here a space and Nob will come with some supper. Use the bell if he doesn’t come.”

Butterbur then half-ran out the door, leaving Mom and London staring at each other.

“Butterbur,” London said at last. “Not Butterbar.”

Mom sat down on a chair and ran her hands through her hair. She looked around the room. “There are probably rats all over this place. I’m hoping this medieval fantasy land doesn’t have the plague.”

“Mom,” London said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

Mom frowned. “Well, that ought to be an adventure. Come on.” They stepped out into the passage again and nabbed a passing servant. “Where is the bathroom?” Mom asked.

The servant blinked. “A bath?”

“No, an ... Um, toilet? Water closet?”

“Outhouse!” London shouted.

“Ah yes, Mistress, this way.”

“Well done, London,” Mom whispered. “How did you know that?”

“ _Little House on the Prairie_ ,” he said.

They took turns at the outhouse, then found their way back to the little room. A tray was now set on the small round table, filled with plates and two mugs. London and Mom quickly sat down and dug in: soup, bread, butter, cheese, even two little tarts. There were also three big mugs, one filled with beer and the other with milk.

London sipped the milk. “Ugh,” he said. “It’s warm.”

“What is that?” Mom asked. “You shouldn’t drink beer.”

“It’s milk.”

“Oh, well—no!” Mom suddenly pulled the milk out of his hand. “Don’t drink that—it’s unpasteurized!”

“What? Un-what?”

Mom was sniffing the milk suspiciously. “We treat our milk to get rid of germs. This milk could make you sick.”

“Well, it’s gross anyway, but what will I drink? Water?”

“No, too dangerous.” She gave him the third mug, which was empty, and picked up a teapot and sniffed inside. “Smells like some herbal tea. Drink this. The water’s been boiled, so it should be alright?”

“What are you drinking?”

“Beer.” Mom was already halfway through her mug. “More like ale. Great stuff. Yeasty, though.”

“How come you can drink the beer? Isn’t it dangerous.”

“Beer and wine is okay.”

London took a sip of the tea. It tasted awful, bitter, like someone had dug up some weeds and soaked them in the water with the dirt still on them. “Gross.”

“Drink it,” his mother ordered. “This is your book, not mine.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: London takes a walk.


	4. The Common Room

London tried to choke down the tea, but it was awful. He gave up and drank the broth from the soup instead. Neither London or his mother spoke for a time, each content to eat and drink and think his or her own thoughts.

He was thinking about Frodo and the other hobbits. It was dark outside now. Had they arrived? Were they in the common room right now, with Strider sitting in the shadows watching them? He couldn’t believe he was sitting in this room, a room with cross-crossed windows and a little fireplace with an actual fire burning in it. London’s family had a fireplace, but he’d never seen a fire in it. It just provided a mantel to place framed photos and hang Christmas stockings. Sometimes Mom would buy wood from the hardware store and place it in the fireplace, but that was just for show.

But this fireplace was actually used; London could smell the soot. It gave off a surprising amount of heat in that little room and the faint acrid smoke made him cough a bit. The fire was the only light in the room and shadows danced on the wall behind Mom.

Finally Mom spoke. She looked a little more cheerful now; she was always a little crazy when she was hungry. She poured herself another mug of beer from a round pitcher with a little top and settled comfortably in her chair. Clearly she was going to play along, and Mom never did _anything_ halfway. 

“So London,” she said. “What is happening in the story now?”

“Well, the hero is Frodo—he’s a hobbit—”

“What’s a hobbit?”

“Short people with, uh, furry feet.”

“Weird,” Mom said. She pulled out the catalog card and read it again. “Who’s this Lord of the Rings?”

“He’s an evil sorcerer,” London said, pleased that Mom was taking an interest in the book. She certainly never had before. “He made a bunch of magic rings and lost the big one that ruled the others. Frodo—the hobbit—found that ring and is trying to give it to Gandalf the Wizard. The Nazgul are chasing him, trying to get the ring back.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “OK. So what’s this Fredo doing now?”

“ _Frodo_ and his friends are probably in the common room,” Lond said, licking his fingers. (The tart was blackberry, and sticky.) “That’s where they meet Strider.”

“Who’s Strider?”

“The King. Well, he’s not the King until later, he’s just a Ranger now.”

“What, like a forest ranger? They have national parks here?”

London laughed. “Noooo, Mom. He just, um, walks around the woods.” He thought hard for a moment. “They protect the people.”

“From what?”

London shrugged and bit into another blackberry tart. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Mom said. “What else happens in the common room?”

“Um, Frodo sings a song, and —oh!” London dropped the tart. “He puts on the ring!”

“Oh.” Mom calmly drank her beer.

“It makes Frodo disappear,” London went on. “Scares everybody. Then Frodo talks to Strider some more and the hobbits leave the common room with him.”

Mom nibbled on a piece of cheese, thinking. “Is that an important scene?”

London nodded.

“Okay then.” Mom stood up. “It’s time to go to bed.”

“What?” London screeched. “We’re not going to the common room? I want to see Frodo and Strider!”

Mom picked her jacket off another chair and put it on. “That scene is too important. We can’t risk interfering.”

“But there’s lots of people there! Nobody will notice us?”

“Somebody might. Remember what that card said? We can’t mess up the plot.” She took a last gulp of beer and set the mug down. “What happens tomorrow?”

London tried to remember. “They all leave in the morning, Strider and the hobbits. Then they leave the road and go to the elf city — Rivendell.”

“Fine, then we’ll follow them tomorrow morning. Frankly, London, I’m wiped out, and you are too. If we’re going to follow hobbits through the wilderness, we need our sleep.”

“But MOM!” London screeched. “I want to see the hobbits and Strider in the common room. Pleeeeeese?”

London begged and pleaded, but to no avail. His mother made him put on his backpack again, found out where their room was, and frogmarched him up the stairs. The room was tiny, as Butterbur had warned, with a little cot next to a small bed. Another little fire was burning in the fireplace and a bowl and pitcher stood on the small table.

Mom looked around approvingly. “This is a very clean medieval world you’ve got here.”

London just didn’t say anything. He planned to never talk to his mother again. He could hear the laughing and music through the floor. Somewhere, very close, were the hobbits and Strider and Butterbur and ...

He didn’t know how long he lay there, seething, listening to the faint sounds from the common room. Every time he drifted off, a loud cheer or clapping would jerk him awake again. Mom was fast asleep, snoring a little. He sat up, then very carefully peeled off his blanket and stood. Mom didn’t move. He put on his sneakers, fumbling in the half-dark lit only by the tiny fire. The he picked up his folded cloak, which he’d been using as a pillow. Mom turned toward the wall and slept on. London was afraid to breathe as he slowly stepped toward the door, which opened with a loud creak. Mom muttered, but didn’t wake.

Still holding his breath, London closed the door behind him and crept down the stairs.

He followed the sounds to the common room. He hoped he wouldn’t attract attention there. Maybe people would think he was a hobbit. He looked a little like one, with his thick, curly hair and round face and red cheeks. Maybe they’d buy it if they didn’t look at his feet.

London snuck into the common room behind a group of strange-looking men with long hair and cloaks. There was a huge fire in the fireplace, and a couple of lamps hung from the high ceiling. More men were sitting at long tables, drinking out of mugs. London scuttled into a corner like bug, finding the edge of a bench to sit on in the shadows.

Nobody noticed him. A hobbit was standing on a table, singing a song—Frodo!—and all the men were looking at the singer. He didn’t see Butterbur. A group of hobbits were gathered on benches and clapping along with the song. About a dozen old men sat around the room’s only round table, their long, white beards wagging, but it wasn’t until one of them stood that London realized they were dwarves. Dwarves! Real dwarves! They even wore pointy hats! He bounced on his bench with excitement. To think Mom wanted him to miss this!

The hobbit on the table was bouncing too, dancing as he sang:

_“The cow and the horses stood on their heads;_

_The guests all bounded from their beds_

_And danced upon the floor ...”_

London remembered now: Frodo wanted to stop one of his friends from talking about Bilbo, so he sang his own song. The hobbit looked older than London had imagined, and fatter, with a puffy face. He wore a little green vest and matching pants and his feet were very hairy. His hair was tied back with a ribbon. He sort of looked like one of the Founding Fathers in the picture of them signing the Declaration of Independence. He was studying American history in school right then, and they’d just gotten to the Revolutionary War.

Frodo was almost shouting his song, so as to be heard over the laughing and talking:

_“With a ping and a pong, the fiddle-strings broke!_

_The cow jumped over the moon—”_

Frodo jumped right on a tray full of mugs, slipped, and slid right off the table with a loud clatter and clash. London was on his feet now; he knew what was going to happen right before it happened, but that didn’t make it any less shocking. Because Frodo never hit the floor. He just disappeared!

The entire company went silent, except for the hobbits, who started shouting for Butterbur. Now London could clearly tell who were Pippin and Sam; everyone had moved away from them and the two hobbits stood alone in a pool of light under a lamp, clearly confused and looking about for Frodo.

“It’s a magician, he is,” London heard someone say. “Up to no good, I’ll warrant.”

London sat down again, but a movement near the opposite wall caught his eye. A tall, cloaked figure sat there, long legs outstretched with muddy boots. And there was Frodo, creeping out from under a nearby table and crawling up to the man. That man must be Strider!

Butterbur arrived and half the room was giving him one of twenty garbled versions of Frodo’s mishap. He vanished in a flash of light, he vanished in a puff of smoke, he picked half the pockets in the room before disappearing, they’d always known he was trouble, you could see his shifty eyes. But most agreed that the hobbit had vanished into thin air.

“I say there’s some mistake,” Butterbur insisted, cleaning up the mess.

“Of course there’s a mistake!” said Frodo. “I haven’t vanished. Here I am! I’ve just been having a few words with Strider in the corner.”

That didn’t calm anybody down, though, and people began streaming out of the common room, complaining about hobbits and their reckless behavior.

“Quite a shock, it was,” said one dwarf. “Turned my hair white, it did.”

“Your hair was already white!” said his companion.

London jumped up and joined the crowd. The room was emptying out fast, and Mom’s warning rang in his ears. He didn’t want to be left alone in common room with only Strider and the hobbits. The crowd swept him out of the common room and through the courtyard, and he was outside by the inn’s “Prancing Pony” sign before he realized it. He needed to get back to his room before Mom woke up.

Suddenly he felt fingers grip him by the throat and drag him out of the light of the lanterns. He stared into the face of a squint-eyed man with big, warty nose and broken teeth. “Here’s one of them rat-folk. Ferny, you know this little weasel?”

A local villager with a long, thin face and two huge black eyebrows that joined together stared at London. “No, ain’t seen this one before. Must be a friend of that Baggins—the one the black chap was so keen on.”

The squint-eyed man shook London until the boy’s teeth rattled. “There’s somebody wants to meet you, pipsqueak. All in black, with a big heap of gold. You’re coming with us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Kirk learns some literary theory that doesn't help at all.


	5. Osgiliath

Faramir turned to the horseman beside him. “Give them the spare horses and keep them near me. I would know how Gondor’s friends fare in other lands.”

In no time Kirk found himself on a horse with a helmet on his head, riding behind Faramir. Kirk summoned memories of summer camp and handled his horse well enough, although it was taller and twitchier than what he’d known. His mind whirled. This was more than a movie, more than a show, this was London’s book. Did the librarian say they had entered the book? How was that possible?

At least the tension had broken, thanks to Ned. Even the horsemen were smiling now. It took two riders to push the librarian on his horse, and then he kept falling off. Every time he fell off he shrieked and rolled into a ball, repeating, “I’ve entered the book! Living the book! No! No!”

Then the soldiers would pick Ned up and stick him on the horse and he’d fall off again. One soldier was foolish enough to give Ned a spear for support and he accidentally stabbed the horse, who had finally had enough and galloped away.

“Put him in the supply wagon,” the Captain said, a faint smile touching his lips. Which the riders did, and Ned spent the rest of the trip (it was later discovered) eating most of the bread and drinking all of the Captain’s personal wine.

Kirk, meanwhile, was riding behind Faramir, cursing his big mouth and wondering how any of this was going to help him find Darcy and London. Faramir pelted him with questions and Kirk agreed that yes, he was from beyond the Misty Mountains (wherever those were). No, he hadn’t heard anything about Saruman (whoever he was) and um, no, he knew nothing of the legends of Numenor or the growing might of Mooma.

“Mordor,” Faramir corrected gently. He sighed. “Truly are the old legends dying. We ceaselessly guard Middle-Earth from the Shadow and yet they do not see.”

“The Shadow.” Kirk didn’t like the sound of that. What kind of world was this anyway? It was all London’s fault. They never should have taught the kid to read. “Where are we going again, um, my lord?”

“Osgiliath is the ancient capital of Gondor,” Faramir replied. “It was founded by our great king Isildur, who later fought Sauron himself on the slopes of Mt. Doom, leading a great host of men and Elves.”

Kirk tried to look impressed, although this answer made no sense at all. Who the heck was Sauron? What kind of name was Mount Doom? Who was the great host? Did that mean he gave great dinner parties? London would know …

_London._ Kirk’s throat felt suddenly tight. London and Darcy were in this world, perhaps on the other side of the Musty Mountains, with this guy Sorry running around. Where could they be? He had to talk to Ned.

“My lord!” Kirk said. All the nearby soldiers turned and stared. Faramir had stopped the procession and was huddled with his closest buddies, probably planning some bloodsoaked attack on Mooma. They were all staring at Kirk now. Okay, maybe that came out a little loud.

“I am … uh … worried about my friend back there,” Kirk went on. “Could I maybe check …”

Faramir dismissed him with a wave and Kirk kicked his horse back toward the end of the line. Ned was lying on a pile of blankets in the supply wagon, sipping from a bottle of wine and looking entirely too content.

“Get up,” Kirk snapped, riding alongside the wagon. “Get up and tell me where my family is.”

Ned swallowed under Kirk’s glare. “I haven’t the faintest idea. I never read this ghastly story, and obviously, I was wise to do so.”

“You must have some idea,” Kirk insisted.

Ned sighed. “We’re clearly in some sad pseudo-medieval society with mythological overtones. From what I can tell, it’s a typically unimaginative heroic tale: feudalism at its finest. The soldiers tell me there’s an evil power to the East, bent on world domination. Figures, there’s always some evil being in the East or West, beginning with the wicked witches in Oz and the Eastern Evil in the Chinese Legend of the Condor Heroes.”

Ned bit off another chunk of bread, swallowed, and went on. “Not to mention the Eastern European villains in spy movies, why …”

Kirk had had enough. He’d kept quiet until now, hoping that Ned would say something at all relevant to their situation, but that obviously wasn’t going to happen. He reached into the wagon, grabbed the bottle out of Ned’s hand, and dashed it to the ground. Ned looked outraged.

“Darn foofy!” Kirk shouted. He’d made it a point to avoid swearing around London and this made for some strange expletives. “To hear you talk, this story is one big cliché, right? So you should be able to make some guesses about what’s going on, right? And you know all about this,” he held up the white catalog card, “right? The same type of card Darcy and London used?”

Ned nodded, hanging to the side of the swaying wagon. The procession was moving faster now.

“Good,” Kirk said, trying to stay calm. “Now let’s talk this through. We arrived in this story at the end, right? There’s supposed to be this big battle.”

“But there was no battle,” Ned said.

“Yeah, I got that. Maybe the story’s over?”

Ned, shook his head. “You must enter somewhere within the story. What do you remember from the movie?”

Kirk rode silently for a moment, thinking. “It was the last movie in the story—the third. Something about a king. There were these two little kids with big feet running around a volcano with another skinny monster kid.”

Ned shuddered.

“Then there was a ship, uh, with black sails, and an elf – I knew he was an elf because he had pointy ears – fighting an elephant, or maybe a bunch of bad guys on an elephant. It was all pretty confusing. I mean, one second you’d have the guy on the ship with a bunch of skeletons, then the elf on the elephant, then the blonde fighting the black knight on a big bat.”

Kirk looked down at the leather reins clutched in his fingers, trying to remember. “She cut the head off the bat, then the Knight swung his mace – you know, those spikes on sticks – and she took off her helmet and said she wasn’t a dude and stabs him good. Wow, that was a great scene.”

“What happened next?” Ned asked, sounding interested despite himself.

Kirk shrugged. “Dunno. I left to get more popcorn, and by the time I got back – huge line – there was just some golden ship sailing away.”

Both men pondered this, and hardly noticed that the soldiers had stopped. They had reached a tall stone wall ringing the grassy plains. Sentries at the gate hailed Faramir and opened the wooden doors wide. Kirk looked back and saw the straight path they’d taken to the gate, then looked forward and saw, past the wall, another path, heading straight as an arrow toward the river sparkling in the distance. He thought he saw the spires of a city rising above the water, Oscarville or something like that. He hoped it was closer than it looked. His butt hurt from all the riding and he couldn’t help but worry that every step of his horse took him further away from Darcy and London.

He looked over at Ned’s wagon and saw the librarian’s face watching him, chin on the wagon’s edge.

“I think we landed in the right place,” Ned said.

“But there’s no battle.”

“No battle _yet_ ,” the librarian corrected. “We landed at the end of the story, the setting for the climax, the final battle, where the fate of all the characters is determined.”

Kirk was confused, and said so.

“We landed in the right place,” the librarian went on, lying back on his blankets again and eating a pear. “But not at the right time. The story hasn’t gotten to us yet. If this story, what do you call it–”

“ _Lord of the Rings_.”

“ _Lord of the Rings_. Silly name. Well, if this _Lord of the Rings_ follows most typical heroic fables, then the main characters are scattered all over this world, fulfilling their various smaller quests before gathering for the final scene. The smaller quests are … practice quests, as you well, where the characters get much-needed experience before they face their final battle. Depend on it, even if the main characters travel as a group in the beginning of the story, they’ll break apart and run around on their own, learning how to be heroic.

“Plus,” the librarian went on, around a mouthful of pear, “’is awows the auter to in-duce various cliff-angers.” He swallowed.

“Various what?”

“Cliff-hangers. Cheap devices that usually appear at the end of the chapter. They add suspense and keep readers turning pages. Like the beautiful lady tied to the railroad tracks when the train is coming. Then the action turns to the hero riding a horse alongside the train and suddenly Indians appear on the hills. Then the action turns back to the lady trying to free herself from ropes. Then the next scene is the hero hit by an arrow, and so on. As I said, cheap device. Most likely this Lord of the Rings has various main characters, and the author left one character in desperate danger, then switched to another character. You can’t do that unless they’re split up.”

The procession was moving again, and Kirk rode his horse through the gate behind the wagon, thinking.

“So the characters haven’t gathered yet,” Kirk said finally. “Are you saying that Darcy and London are somewhere earlier in the story?”

Ned nodded. “Probably shadowing one of the main characters.”

“This Farmer guy –“

“Faramir.”

“Is he a main character?”

Ned sat up in the wagon and looked over the line of soldiers at Faramir, riding ahead with his buddies. “I don’t think so,” he said finally. “First, he doesn’t seem to be doing anything interesting and second, he doesn’t seem very complex. That makes him a minor character, probably messing around with his own little plans until his spotlight.”

“What’s a spotlight?”

“The moment when a minor character justifies why he’s in the novel. That can’t happen until some main characters show up. Then Faramir will help them or hinder them or dispense sage advice or give them a magic fork or something.” Ned yawned. “I hate medievalistic heroic tales.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying, don’t worry about Miss Darcy and young London. Eventually the main characters – or most of them, anyway – will make their way to the final battle and your family will likely follow soon after.”

Kirk couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you saying I should just wait around until Darcy and London join a bloody battle with skeletons and killer elephants? Have you seen this world? They wouldn’t last a day! We need to figure out where they are!”

Ned just shook his head. “I would venture, sir, that your family is more competent than you would expect.”

Kirk reached into the wagon and grabbed the collar of Ned’s shirt. “I don’t care if Darcy turned up here with a week’s worth of protein bars and a bulletproof vest. How long can a woman and a child last unprotected in a medieval world? Now you start thinking hard, Ned. You’re supposed to be so smart. How do we find them?”

Kirk released Ned and flexed his fingers. He hated bullies, always had, hated acting like one. He’d always been a big, athletic guy, a star football player in high school, would have been one in college too, except for a back injury his freshman year. He hated men who used their size to intimidate people. That wasn’t a sign of strength, it was a sign of weakness. And here he was, pushing around some bookworm.

But that was Darcy out there, and London, and those battle scenes were vivid in his mind. He had to find them, and if that meant he had to break a few heads, or one snide, overstuffed, overly intellectual head in particular, he was willing to do it.

After all, physical intimidation did seem to work. Ned was smiling eagerly. “I have an idea,” he squeaked. “This _Lord of the Rings_ , it’s the boy’s favorite book, yes?”

“Yes,” Kirk frowned.

Ned was sitting up, bread forgotten. “What is his favorite scene?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“Everything. When young London brought them here, he likely had an affinity to a particular scene, just as you did. But instead of an attractive blonde heroine in a dramatic clash with a black knight, London’s scene was …”

Kirk tried to think. London was always talking about that darn book, describing what the characters were doing – Freddy and Ralph and Pepper, or something. Kirk only half-listened most of the time. But there was one part London always liked best, the main characters leaving their town, chased all over the place by …

“Black Riders,” Kirk said suddenly.

“What?”

“Black riders. The main characters were these little guys, called Hairballs or something. One of them had something and they were being chased by Black Riders. London was all Black Riders this and Black Riders that. The Black Riders were on the road, the Black Riders were in the river, the Black Riders stabbed someone on a hill. But it was the first part, on the road, London liked. He liked to say the Hairballs barely left home in time, that if they’d waited a few more hours, the Riders would have caught them.”

Ned was nodding eagerly. “Very typical. In a pursuit plot, the author adds tension by making the pursuer just behind the pursued. Again and again the pursued barely escapes discovery or capture. Very typical of the beginning of the story. The call to adventure. The hero begins in a mundane situation of normality from which some information is received that acts as a call to head off into the unknown.”

“What?” Kirk was lost.

“I mean, the hero is at home and something makes him leave. Then, more often than not, this supernatural mentor will present the hero with one or more talismans or artifacts that will aid him later in their quest.”

Kirk turned that one over for a bit. “The hero is at home. Something makes him leave. Some magic weirdo gives him an enchanted gold tooth or something and they leave.”

“Yes, these main characters enter a dangerous realm, pursued by evil.”

“A dangerous realm, pursued by evil,” Kirk repeated. He straightened on his horse and looked away from Ned.

The long line of Gondor soldiers stretched before him; they were near the back of the procession, with the other wagons. Only hunched wagon drivers and a smattering of horseman rode nearby. Except for the bright swords and spears the soldiers carried, the day felt soft and bright, not perilous. The grass was shorter and scrubbier, and the path muddier. They were nearing the river, the big river he’d seen from the high plains. Straight ahead, with spires stretching toward the cloudless sky, was Oscarville, or whatever.

The city straddled the river, with large domes on either side. The near side looked deserted, white and black flags flapping weakly. The far side looked darker, somehow. Behind it loomed even darker mountains, wrapped in gray mist. Clouds seemed to hang still over the mountains, like a fleet of ships waiting for a signal. Kirk blinked. This place was seriously messing with his head.

Maybe he should be grateful that Darcy and London weren’t here, Kirk thought. This land of Mooma, or whatever, the bad kingdom, looked seriously dangerous. Maybe those Black Riders wouldn’t bother Darcy and London; they were looking for the Hairballs, after all. Darcy had a real head on her shoulders, always had; she was probably settled someplace nice, lecturing the villagers about their fences. He said as much to Ned, who shook his head.

“They have to stay with the main characters, or at least near them. They have to progress with the story to the end. It’s tricky. They have to stay near enough to follow the story’s plot, but not so close as to change the plot.”

“They can change the plot?” Kirk asked. That hadn’t occurred to him.

“Yes, and if they change the plot …” Ned looked around and lowered his voice. “They could change the ending. Evil could triumph, and we would all be trapped here … forever.”

Kirk stared at Ned, appalled, until the sudden halt of the grain wagon before him made stop the horse. They had arrived at Oscarville, and Kirk realized that his assumptions about the city had been completely wrong.

Instead of a thriving smaller city, Oscarville was an enormous ruin, now crumbling and decayed. The remnants of a high wall stuck out like gray, jagged teeth. Most of the stones on the wide boulevards were missing, now just rivers of mud. Nearly all the stone buildings were open to the sky, with wooden steps and doors and ramps quickly rigged up to allow entering and exiting. The soldiers had all dismounted and led their horses to long houses near the entrance which were makeshift stables. The rest crept along on foot, heads down, eyes shifting warily about.

“What a dump,” Kirk said. “I thought this was the capital.”

“The ancient capital, most likely,” Ned said, looking interested. “Those domes likely housed great halls of kings and queens.”

Suddenly a group of soldiers surrounded them, gray eyes precisely matching their hard, bright helmets. All had spears pointed directly at Kirk and Ned. “This way,” the leader grunted.

“Farmer wants to see us, I guess,” Kirk said.

“Faramir!” Ned hissed.

“Captain Faramir to you,” said the leader coldly. “Under his orders. Once we cross the wall, he is no longer the Lord Steward’s son, but merely a Captain.”

Ned bowed hastily and Kirk tried to follow suit. The soldiers marched them over to a low house, one of the few with a roof. Only one small, slotted window could be seen on one side. The interior looked dark and cramped to Kirk.

“Hey,” he said. “Couldn’t we have a house with a sunroof?”

The soldiers didn’t answer, but merely grabbed the two men by their shirts and shoved them inside.

“Hey!” Kirk shouted, scrambling to his feet. “What gives?”

The lead soldier entered the house, his body blocking the light from the doorway. His face, lit only by sunlight coming through the single window, was grim.

“What gives, indeed, servant of Mordor,” he rasped. “Do we look like fools? What man would journey these lands, yet know nothing of the Dark Lord? Who would speak so lightly of the Lord of Barad’hur but a servant of his, and a powerful servant at that? Who else would speak of the Nazgul with no fear?”

“Naz-who?” Kirk asked.

“Do not toy with us!” The soldier grimaced horribly. “We will know where your nine masters are. They have crossed the river, we know, disguised as riders in black. They have eluded our scouts and ridden away on some foul errand. We would know their purpose and yours, and you shall tell us.”

Ned shrieked and cowered on the floor. “We are doomed!”

Kirk groaned. “Shut up, Ned! Look, we’re not evil, I’m trying to find my family, they’re in danger and we need to go—”

A heavy hand struck Kirk in the face, knocking him to the floor. “I will not hear your filthy lies, spy,” the hard, stern voice said. “You will tell us all you know.” He stepped outside and grasped the heavy wooden door. “You will tell us everything … and then you will die.”

The door slammed shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: London decides he doesn’t like being a hobbit.


	6. Bree

London couldn’t breathe from shock, or maybe it was because the squint-eyed man had a hand wrapped around his neck. Caught! Caught by Bill Ferny and some nasty Southerner! They thought he was a hobbit!

London kicked his legs, hoping to draw attention to his feet, not big and fuzzy but small and booted. The men, however, had no time to look at feet.

“Hurry,” rasped Ferny. “He won’t like being kept waiting.”

“He’ll be glad to wait for this ‘un,” the other said, giving London a shake. The boy’s lower limbs were dragging in the mud and London could hear his mother crying “London! Look at your pants!”

They were back at the tall gate again, made of sharpened boards tied securely together. The guard was nowhere to be seen, and the only light came from a lamp hung above the gate, casting a small yellow pool on the ground. They were surrounded by dark shapes, trees and houses and posts. London didn’t like to think what other shadows were out there. Where were the Nazgul? Had the Ringwraiths entered the village yet? He had the terrible feeling that they had.

The two men stood just outside the lamplight, looking nervous. Suddenly London got a cold, icy feeling, his legs felt weak. A darker shadow moved within the shadows and crept nearer, making no sound.

“Who’s there?” Ferny asked, trying to sound tough, but the gurgle in his throat gave him away.

“Bagginsssss,” hissed a low voice from the darker shadow. The shape grew long, and tall, and towered over them. London could see the shape of a hood, and shoulders, and a long cloak. His teeth chattered. Would the Nazgul suck out his soul? No, those were the Dementors from Harry Potter. Would he throw back his hood and show a face with no eyes? No, that was from _Eye of the World_. Come to think of it, all these fantasy stories kind of sounded alike sometimes. Odd …

“There’s a Baggins in Bree, rr-rr-ight enough,” Ferny stammered. “At the Prancing Pony. One of those hobbits up and disappeared right in the common room, he did.”

The hood turned toward London. “Bagginnsssss?”

“No, but this here’s one of those rat-folk that came with 'im,” said the other man.

“I’m not a hobbit!” London squeaked.

The hood faced him fully now and icy fingers squeezed his heart and mind—he couldn’t breath, his heart couldn’t pump, his mind couldn’t think. The only sound was the pounding in his ears and sniffing …. Sniffing?

“Bagginsssss,” the black shape said. “Take me to … Bagginsssss.”

“I … I don’t know a Bag-Bag-Baggins.” London was stammering now. “I’m not a hobbit, I’m a boy!” Something pushed him backwards and he was lying in the mud. He frantically waved his feet in the air. “See? No furry feet! No furry feet! Mom!” he shouted, “Mom!”

The shadow recoiled like a snake, backing away from London’s flailing feet.

“I still get my gold, right?” Ferny asked.

London turned over on his stomach and was crawling away, when an iron-covered foot stepped on his cloak and the hood bent nearer.

“What’s that?” the Southerner asked suddenly.

The hood turned away and hissed. A small shape was standing near the last house in the row, the moonlight shining on his curly head and bare feet.

“Hobbit!” Ferny hissed. London heard a whooshing sound and the figure by the house fell over as if blown by a stiff wind. Then men and the shadow abandoned London and ran forward, picking up the figure by the ground.

“Now that’s a hobbit, for sure it is,” he heard Ferny’s voice.

London scrambled to his feet. That must be Merry! He wasn’t in the common room, he suddenly remembered. Should London help him? What could he do?”

A shout rang out behind the men and a bright lantern clearly outlined their shapes. They dropped Merry and backed away into a side street. London looked about for the Nazgul, but the black shape had disappeared without a sound. London ran up to the lantern.

“Is he all right?” he gasped, looking down at Merry.

“Mr. Brandybuck perhaps had more beer than was good for him,” said Nob, for it was the hobbit who worked for the Prancing Pony. “Wake up now, Mr. Brandybuck! It’s time for bed, it is, and not in the middle of the street.”

Merry groaned and struggled without opening his eyes. London suddenly remembered his mother’s warning about interfering. Merry was a main character; any contact with him was dangerous. He backed away and slipped into the shadows himself, following the hedge to the gate and then the main road back to the Prancing Pony. As he ran, he thought back to his meeting with the Nazgul. Had he given anything away? No, but good thing Nob turned up.

He ran into the courtyard and straight into a cloaked figure. “Sorry, I—Mom!”

“London!” his mother hugged him. “London!” She pushed him away from her and held his arms as hard as the Southerner had. “Never, ever do that again! This place is dangerous!”

“I know, I’ll never do it again. I promise. Mom, can we go to our room? Right now?”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Um, Mom, can we go to our room now?”

“All right, but you’re going to tell me everything you did, young man. Everything!”

“OK, Mom.” London pushed ahead of his mother, still holding her hand. He led her up the stairs. “Uh, can we go a little faster?”

***

Only the faintest embers of a fire burned in the fireplace. London had insisted the shutters stayed closed, and no candle lit, so he and his mother sat in the dark, side by side on the bed. He told her about the scene in the common room, and how Ferny and the Southerner had grabbed him, and the Nazgul. His mother squeaked a little at the last part and clutched his hand. There was a silence then, broken only by the occasional crackling of the fire.

“You must be exhausted,” she said finally. “Lie down in the bed now, I’ll lie beside you.” She got up and checked the doors and shutters again. “Lie down now.”

London snuggled against the wall and closed his eyes, but his mother remained sitting upright, something in her hand.

“What are you holding Mom?” he asked drowsily.

“A chair leg,” she said. “This furniture isn’t very well built.”

Somehow that comforted London, the image of his mother breaking up furniture like the guys in his LEGO video game. He put the pillow over his face and drifted off to sleep.

***

London tossed restlessly and opened a drowsy eye. The downstairs neighbors were having another party – he could hear them crashing into the furniture down there. Usually they played loud rap music, too, but Kirk had put a stop to that, stomping downstairs and banging on the door with a meaty fist. Maybe another neighbor was complaining, London thought, he could hear someone pounding on the wall. Maybe old Mrs. Trimble in apartment B. Mrs. Trimble was hard of hearing, so the partiers had to be pretty loud to bother her. He drifted off again but was startled awake again by another crash below. He could hear shutters creaking and slapping against the wall …

Wait a minute. London sat up. His apartment building didn’t have shutters, just window blinds. The room was utterly dark, but he remembered where he was. Mom was sleeping beside him, snoring again, still clutching the table leg. London felt for the shutters above the bed and carefully eased one open.

The moon was lower, its bottom edge nibbled away by the branches of trees. He could see the courtyard and the Prancing Pony sign above, swaying in the wind. Leaves rustled and swirled over the stone floor of the courtyard. He inched his head out of the window and looked down. The open shutters on the ground-floor windows were banging against the wall of inn. The shutters were round, he noticed, like the windows. This made London feel nervous, although he didn’t know why.

His breath caught. What was that? A shadow crept out of the window below, a familiar black shadow, moving soundlessly. It crossed the courtyard, skirting the light from the lantern hanging from the arch. A second followed, then a third. London pulled his head back, and carefully, quietly closed the shutter and latched it. He listened, but all he could hear was his breathing and his mother’s snoring. He pulled the blanket close and stuck his head under the pillow again. It was the Nazgul, he was sure. He remembered how, in the book, they ransacked the hobbits’ bedroom. He tried to remember if they did anything else, but his eyelids were drooping and soon the rhythmic banging of the shutters below lulled him to sleep.

***

He woke to sunlight streaming in the window and his mother standing by the bed, fully dressed.

“Good morning, honey. Are you hungry?” Mom waved a hand at the room’s small table. “Bread, bacon, tomato, eggs and tea. I love English breakfasts!”

London sat up. “We have to go! They’ll leave without us!”

“No chance.” His mother sat down and started cutting up a tomato. “The whole village is talking about your hobbits. A dozen have claimed to see the Black Riders, and somebody stole all the horses in Butterbar’s stable. I’ve been buying traveling supplies all morning, and I keep running into hobbits doing the same. They’re trying to buy a pony before they go, the little stable hobbit told me.”

London sat down and piled eggs on his plate. He ate all his eggs, plus three slices of toast, two tomatoes and almost all the bacon. He’d been too excited to eat much the night before and he felt almost starved. He even drank the nasty tea.

“What happens next?” Mom asked. She had a scarf tying back her hair and with the apron, she looked just like a village woman except for her boots. “Where are the hobbits going?”

“To Weathertop,” London said. “It’s a big hill—looks like Corona Heights, except instead of just rocks, there’s an old stone tower, all broken up.”

“How far away is it?”

London’s heart sank. “A long way. And the Riders will be watching the Road. How will we get there?”

“Will the hobbits take the Road?”

He shook his head. “Strider takes them the long way, though the woods.”

Mom thought on that while she chewed her bacon. “Well, we’re not rangers, like this Strider. If we try to go through the woods, we’ll get lost. We’ll have to follow the Road.”

“But the Riders—“

“We don’t have to walk on the road, just near it. We can peek at it every so often to make sure we’re on the right track. It’ll slow us down, but if the hobbits are going the long way, it might be okay.”

The roar of many voices rose outside. London and Mom went to the window. A crowd had gathered in the courtyard, and the hobbits were under the arch with Strider and the skinniest, sickliest-looking pony London had ever seen. It looked ready to drop dead any second.

“That pony will never make it,” Mom said.

“Look, they’re leaving!” London cried. The hobbits had finished talking to Butterbur and were leaving the inn, leading the poor pony. Villagers hurried to follow them, chattering all the way.

“We’ll give them a head start,” Mom said. “Half the village is walking with them now. Let the Riders track them and maybe they won’t notice us.”

She had been busy while London slept, trading her pearl earrings for gold. She brought out a small pack for London and a larger one for her, each with a bedroll. Mom loved to camp (unlike Kirk, who preferred a couch and a good football game) and she looked almost cheerful as she opened the packs, revealing warmer clothes and food and a tinderbox to make a fire.

“I haven’t made a fire this way since Girl Scouts,” she said.

They finally left after a good lunch in the little parlor they’d used the night before. The excitement had died down and nobody noticed Mom and London walking through the open gates and past rows of little houses. London looked nervously around for Bill Ferny. Would Ferny and his friend recognize him and tell the Black Riders? But nobody spoke to them and finally they left the houses behind and walked along the road. London noticed a little path that left the Road and headed north.

“Should we take this?” he asked.

Mom shook her head. “We have to stay near the road.” A little further along they saw a gap in the hedge lining the road. “Let’s try this,” she said.

They looked up and down the road. Nothing in sight and no sounds could be heard. So they slipped through the hedge and trudged along the other side, keeping the hedge close to their left. Eventually the hedge turned into a row of trees with wide gaps, through which they could see the road. They steered further away from the road then, keeping an eye on the line of trees.

London liked to hike, but this was the worst hike he’d ever been on. The land was almost flat, a little downhill, so the walking was easy enough. But his mother wouldn’t let them stop, and every time London tried to speak, she hushed him. Occasionally she’d leave him behind a bush and creep up to the Road. Usually she came back quickly, but once she was gone a long time and her face was grim when she returned.

“I saw two Riders were on the Road. They stopped near me and sniffed, then galloped on,” she said. “What are they sniffing for?”

“The Ring,” London said, glad to see she was letting him talk. “They can’t see very well during the day.”

“That’s good,” Mom said. “We don’t have the ring, so maybe they won’t know we’re here.”

“Mom—the horses can see.”

“And hear,” Mom said. “Shhhh.”

And that was it for talking for a while. They trudged on, but soon the land became flat, with few trees, and they stopped. Mom looked worried, there were no trees or bushes to hide behind.

“We’ll move further away from the road,” she decided. “We just have to make it to those woods ahead. She pointed to a clump of trees in the distance. “Come on, London.”

“Mom, what about—"

“Shhh.” She led him away from the road, then fell on her knees. London almost smiled, she looked kind of silly in her dress and that big pack on her back. Like a snail. “Get down, London. We’ll have to crawl.”

For an hour they crawled, and this part was worse than any before it. Soon London’s knees were killing him, but every time he complained, Mom shushed him again. He was crawling along, wishing he’d read another book all the time, like the Wizard of Oz or Alice in Wonderland, when Mom suddenly stopped.

“Get down,” she hissed.

A high shriek pierced the air and another shriek farther off answered it. London felt cold and trembly, his face buried in the grass. Another shriek, and then another. He lifted his head slightly and saw they were on higher ground, looking down at the road. Three black shapes were riding along it, and a fourth coming to meet them. Mom’s hand grabbed his hair and pushed his face down.

“Don’t move,” she whispered.

They lay still, and London tried not to think about bugs in the grass. It was good not to be crawling, though. He eased his backpack off and the sun beat down on his back. He closed his eyes and slid into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: London's mother makes a promise.


	7. Weathertop

Mom woke London entirely too soon and they continued that terrible hike. There were no more trees, but a creek running in same general direction gave them cover. Mom set up their little tent by the creek but refused to start a fire and they went to sleep early.

When they crawled out of the tent the next morning, they just stared, amazed, because the creek was gone and they were once again surrounded by trees. Even more important—to London, anyway—was a nearby line of hills looming above the treetops. The closest hill was flat on top, with what looked like tumbled stones circling the top like a crown.

“I don’t understand,” Mom said, sounding crabby, which was no surprise, because A: It was morning and B: “I don’t understand” was Mom’s least-favorite phrase in the world. “Where the heck are we?”

“Weathertop!” London cried.

“Not so loud,” Mom scolded. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, Mom. That’s where the hobbits are going.”

Mom shivered. “Great.” She looked around again, relieved to see their backpacks still piled by the tent. “We must be following the plot or something. Seriously weird, though.”

They still had to keep hiking, however, although they didn’t have to watch the Road with a tall landmark to guide them. That night the Weathertop flashed with lights, and they sat under a tree and watch, not daring to speak or risk a fire. More scrubby trees gave them cover the next day as they approached the hill around noon. They’d been climbing steadily away from the Road, and now the Road spun out below them like brown yarn.

Mom pulled out some bread and cheese. “Tell me more about Weathertop. What happens?”

London frowned at the cheese in his hands. “There’s a battle. The Nazgul attack Weathertop and stick Frodo with a sword. Then Aragorn jumps in with a big torch.”

“When does the battle happen?”

“At night.”

“Well, we’ll stay out of the battle.” His mom wrapped up the cheese and stuck it in her pack. “This should be a safe place to wait.”

They made a little camp in the hills. Mom was very fussy about clearing the dry leaves and laying out the bedrolls. London heard a little bubbling stream nearby, so she disappeared for a time and came back with wet hair and a full water bottle. She made London brush his teeth with some weird powder and a little twig. It was totally gross and made his mouth taste bad, so she let him drink the rest of the water and went to get more.

While she was gone again, London looked up at the hill. The sun was lower in the sky now, and the dark hill frowned down at him, tall and broad-shouldered, with a tattered crown. He saw a little flicker of red off to the side, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. It was a flicker, perhaps a fire. He knew whose fire it was: It was the hobbits and Strider, settled around their own camp, waiting for the Nazgul. The battle wasn’t on top of the hill, like it was in the movie. (London was very annoyed when the movie got things wrong.) The book said they were in an … um … dell?

“Mom,” he asked when she returned, “what’s a dell?”

“Shhh,” Mom said. “Quieter.”

“What’s a dell?” London whispered.

“I don’t know. Why?”

“The book says the hobbits and Strider camp in a dell, and sit around a fire. That’s where the battle is.”

Mom looked up quickly and immediately saw the red flame. “The Riders attack the camp?” She asked. London nodded. “At night?” London nodded again. “Well, we have some time.”

She started fussing with their own camp again, moving the bedrolls again and even rigging a little curtain with one of the blankets to cover a gap in the trees. That meant she was worried. Mom always cleaned when she was upset. After Kirk left, their apartment looked perfect for weeks.

Finally she settled down, sitting with her back to a tree. London sat beside her. There wasn’t anything else to do.

“London,” Mom said. Her voice was serious. “If we get separated—”

“Separated?” London cried.

“Shhh. If we get separated, keep on with the story. I’ll find you.”

“How?”

“I’ll find you,” she repeated, her blue eyes hard and cold. She looked around. “It’s getting darker. Shhhh.”

London frowned. Why was she shushing him? _She_ was the one talking.

The night deepened. The stars came out, but neither London or Mom went to sleep. Mom started fussing with a stick. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Shhh.”

London groaned silently. Gosh, he’d whispered and everything. Was she cleaning again? Then the moon peaked over Weathertop’s crown and he saw she was sharpening a stick with her knife. She gave it to London.

“What’s this—?”

“Shhhh. Wait, what’s that?”

_She_ could ask questions, London thought bitterly, but then he saw it too, and felt it. A black shadow, darker than the trees, drawing closer. He felt cold and empty inside, like all life was being sucked out of his bones.

He drew closer to Mom and held up his stick. Mom had her knife, which shone a little in the moonlight. He heard a hissing breath and a faint ring, which London now recognized as the drawing of a sword. Mom pushed him between her and the tree. A tall shadow rose, its hood gone, topped with a pointed crown.

Suddenly they heard a voice further off, deep and rich. It was chanting, softly at first, then growing louder:

_… Again she fled, but swift he came._

_Tinuviel! Tinuviel!_

_He called her by her elvish name;_

_And there she halted listening._

_One moment stood she, and a spell_

_His voice laid on her: Beren came,_

_And doom fell on Tinuviel …_

London’s heart, which had risen during the poem, fell at the word doom. Were they doomed? But the shadow stopped and turned as the words continued:

_Long was the way that fate them bore_

_O’er stony mountains cold and grey,_

_Through halls of iron and darkling door …_

A hiss of rage came from the shadow and it swept away, with not even the rustle of a leaf. Mom and London each let out the breaths they’d been holding.

“London, was—“ Mom began.

“Shhh,” said London.

They sat, silent, afraid to move. Suddenly they heard shouting, and the little fire on the hill blazed higher.

“Keep close to the fire!’ a man’s voice shouted. They sat silent once more, long slow minutes passed.

“What’s that?” cried a little voice on the hillside.

“O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!” yelled another small voice. Another little fire appeared on the hillside, this one obviously a torch, swirling around. A sharp shriek sounded, like a Nazgul in pain, and another cry of pain, not a Nazgul though. Mom clutched London tighter.

“What happened?” she whispered.

“One of the Nazgul stabbed Frodo,” London whispered back. “He’s the one carrying the Ring.”

“These Black Riders – Nazgoo—“

“Nazgul.”

“Right, what I said. They want the magic ring?”

“Yes.”

“What happens now?”

London tried to remember. “The Nazgul just leave, I think, to try again another night. They think stabbing Frodo will make him one of them.”

“And what _are_ they?”

“Ringwraiths.”

“Ghosts.”

“Yeah, they used to be kings. Then Sauron—“

“The bad guy.”

“Yeah, Sauron gave them rings and turned them into Ringwraiths.”

Silence. “This place is really into rings,” Mom said. She looked at her own finger where she’d once worn Kirk’s ring. “What now?”

“They’ll leave in the morning and the Nazgul will chase them.”

“Great. Another chase across the countryside. Close your eyes, London, but hold your stick. I’ll stand guard.”

“You’re sitting.”

“I’ll sit guard.”

“But Mom—“

“Shhh.”

London looked up at the hill again. The fire on the hill was bigger now, probably to keep the Nazgul away. He leaned against Mom, clutching the sharpened stick, and closed his eyes.

***

Light filtered through London’s eyelids. He was flat on his back on a soft surface, and for a moment he thought he was home, lying in his own bed, with its Star Wars comforter and his stuffed, one-eared teddy bear. What a crazy dream, he thought. Maybe he should lay off the LEGOs Lord of the Rings video game for a while.

But when he opened his eyes, he realized he wasn’t in a bed. He was lying on a flat, grassy plain, with the sound of water flowing nearby. He scrambled to his feet and found himself looking over the grass to a wide river, flowing smoothly between the plain on one side, and a steep, brown bank on the other.

London looked around. There was no one in sight, except for Mom, sleeping on the grass. Their camping supplies, the bedrolls and backpacks, lay on the grass around them. Even the blanket Mom had hung on the tree back at Weathertop now lay spread on the grass.

He bent down. “Mom! Mom! Wake up!”

“Shhhh,” Mom murmured without opening her eyes. Then she jerked awake. “What?” She sat up and looked around.

“Again?” she asked. “Where are we? Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” London said, looking down at his hand. He still held the sharpened stick.

Mom blinked in the sunshine. “Is that a river?”

Suddenly London knew. “The Ford of Bruinen!” he shouted.

“The what of what?”

“Mom, what’s a ford?”

“A Detroit automaker,” Mom said absently, now standing and shaking her eyes. “There doesn’t seem to be anyone around.”

“That’s the River Bruinen,” London stood beside her and pointed ahead.

“Oh, the Ford of Bruinen. A ford is a shallow place where you can cross.” Mom was still looking around, obviously rattled by the Nazgul King’s visit the night before

London looked around, too. It certainly was nicer here than at Weathertop, anyway.

“What happens after Weathertop?” Mom wanted to know.

“They try to heal Frodo, but they can’t. So they keep hiking, and they meet an elf, who gives Frodo his horse.”

“Then what?”

“Frodo crosses the river, with the Nazgul chasing him.” London pointed to the water. “ _This_ river.” He looked up at Mom. “Can we get closer to the river? Please? We can’t see anything here.”

“Okay. I’d like to wash up, and you …” she gave London a familiar look. “You are filthy.”

It felt good to walk across the soft grass in the sunshine. The grass was tall enough to hide in if they needed to, but short enough to see ahead. They came to the river, but it was obviously too deep to cross. Rushes lined the edges, and they stepped carefully on the muddy bank to avoid falling in. They washed their face and hands and Mom made London change his clothes and rinsed out his dirty, leaf-covered ones. She laid the wet clothes on the grass and had London turn his back so she could wash her own. Then they had a big breakfast; they were traveling faster than Mom had predicted and had plenty of food from Bree. They discussed having a fire, but decided it was too risky, and anyway, there wasn’t any firewood around.

So they sat on the grass and waited. London leaned against a tall pile of rocks. Whatever else happened, London expected a pretty good show.

“You said nothing really happens until they get to the river,” Mom said.

“Frodo starts fading.”

Mom rolled her eyes. “Thrilling. I mean, nothing vital to the plot happens. I can’t help but wonder if this book—this world—brought us to the next big scene.”

London thought about that. He had to admit, he usually skipped the part with the journey; he always felt bad for Frodo and wanted to get to the river. Suddenly restless, he jumped up and began climbing the pile of rocks.

“So what’s across the river, anyway?” Mom asked. “Be careful, London.”

“Rivendell … the home … of the elves,” London panted. His feet scrabbled for a place to land. “We’ll never find it … can’t be found … unless invited.”

Mom squinted up at the bright sun. “Well, maybe this book will take us there. What happens at Rivendell?”

“They have a Council,” London said. “They decide to destroy the Ring in the fires of Mount Doom.”

Mom laughed. “You’re kidding. Really? Mount Doom?” She kept on chuckling.

“What’s funny?”

She was shaking her head. “Nothing. Where’s this Mount Doom?”

“On the other side of the Misty Mountains, across the Great River Anduin, in the land of Mordor.”

Mom shivered despite herself. The name resonated for someone who had seen the Nazgul. “That Nazgul that threatened us, he looked like a king.”

“They were all kings, Mom. But only the head Nazgul wore a crown. He’s the witch-king of Angmar.”

Mom shuddered again. “Now _he_ freaked me out. I never want to see him—”

“Look!” London had reached the top of of the pile of rocks. He pointed upriver. The wide river looked calm enough, and deep, but about a short city block away, he could see the water was shallow. The submerged rocks could be clearly seen and the Road ran from a clump of trees to their left right up to the ford. “I can see the ford!”

Mom climbed up beside him, just in time to see a white horse burst out ofthe trees, shining in the sun. It bore a small rider that bounced and swayed on its back, but never fell. 

“It’s Frodo!” London shouted.

“That’s some horse,” Mom said, impressed. The glistening animal seemed to run in slow motion, yet take enormous strides. Already it was nearly halfway to the river. Mom loved horses, had won riding awards on her pony Sunflower when she was a girl. She’d put London on his first pony when he was four, but the boy just shrieked in terror every time.

The white horse was nearly to the river, but it slowed to a walk. Frodo turned it around and faced the clump of trees, and London and Mom gasped, because five Black Riders were lined up in front of the wood, sitting like statues on their huge horses. A voice shouted in a language London and Mom didn’t know and the white horse sprang away, pounding for the river. The Riders galloped out of the trees after Frodo, but the white horse was faster, and it had a head start. The Black Riders were horrifying on their huge black horses, black cloaks streaming behind them.

“They’ll never catch him,” Mom said. The Nazgul shrieked.

“What about those guys?” London pointed. Out of another clump of woods further upriver, four more Riders came galloping along the river toward London and Mom, obviously trying to head off Frodo.

“Oh. Well, that’s that. He’ll never make it,” Mom said. The four Riders waved their swords as they rode shrieking.

But Frodo did make it. His horse charged into the river, sending up splashes of water. He crossed the river and started up the steep bank, then turned and looked down at the water. All nine Riders were lined up along the bank, shrieking at him. Frodo yelled, the Nazgul screamed back, although London and Mom didn’t catch the words. London saw Aragorn running toward the river, with a tall elf and the hobbits, then they disappeared into the grass.

Frodo lifted his sword as the Nazgul rode into the river. London strained to see better, his right foot slipping in the mud on the river’s edge.

Then they heard a loud roar and Mom screamed. A wall of water was rushing downriver, as bubbly as clean dishwater. Mom pulled London’s arm and grabbed his hand, shouting, but London couldn’t hear her, couldn’t hear anything from the water. Mom and London tried to scramble up the bank, but the flood was too fast. London could see Aragorn, the elf (now glowing white) and the hobbits. They’d popped up out of nowhere, waving torches.

Water entered London’s nose and mouth and his hand slipped from Mom’s grasp. The waves were upon him, looking like white horses galloping over him, and then the water overtook him and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Kirk tries not to serve malevolent evil.


	8. Prison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ned: “Joining forces with the hero’s nemesis rarely bodes well for minor characters, especially in the tired, cliché-ridden fantasy trope we are traveling in. Those who serve evil almost always wind up exposed and defeated and ultimately dead, or perhaps turned into a vampire.”

“This is all your fault,” Kirk told Ned. They were sitting on the cold stone floor of their small prison, watching the thin slit of light from the one narrow window turn from blue to gray to dark gray, and finally to black, with just a few stars visible. The small army’s clatter and shouts had died down and the only sound were muffled footsteps from the sentries on the walls and slow lap-lap-lap of the waters of the Great River Anduin.

Nobody had bothered to tie their hands – the wooden door was too stout to break through barehanded, and the window too narrow to slip through. Nobody had bothered to feed them either. Ned kept carrying on about that, as if he hadn’t eaten half the food in the supply wagon on the way over. Kirk, on the other hand, had eaten nothing since breakfast back home, and he was in no mood for the librarian’s stupid quotes.

_“… But thou contracted to thine own bright eyes,”_ Ned recited. “ _Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel,_ _Making a famine where abundance lies …”_

“Can it, Ned,” Kirk said.

_“ …_ _Pity the world, or else this glutton be,”_ the librarian continued. _“To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.”_

“That’s it, you’re going down,” Kirk said, standing. “You won’t make it to the execution tomorrow. My family’s out there and let me tell ya, I’m in no mood to hear a bunch of garbage about famine and graves!”

“Garbage?” Ned cried. “That’s Shakespeare!” Kirk flexed his hands and made two meaty fists. “All right! No more sonnets, I promise.”

Kirk reluctantly sat down again. He still felt strongly that thumping Ned would make him feel much better. He certainly couldn’t feel worse. He was trapped in this ruined dump, and even if he was free, he had no idea where to go or what to do. He couldn’t give up, though. Winners never gave up. Kirk didn’t know Shakespeare, but he had his own quotes, drummed into him during his years of high school and college football. His favorite was from Vince Lombardi, famous head coach of the Green Bay Packers. Kirk hailed from Madison, Wisconsin, and for him, every trip to Lambeau Field was a pilgrimage.

“Winning,” Lombardi said, “means you’re willing to go longer, work harder and give more than anyone else.”

Kirk sat down and thought on those words a bit, trying to tune out Ned’s whimpering. _This_ was Kirk’s biggest game. This wasn’t about a score or trophy – this was his family. Had he gone longer, worked harder, given more? Was he going to give up and sit in this little stone hut until he was marched to his death?

“Champions aren’t made in the gym,” Kirk said.

Ned, looked up, still sniffing.

“Champions are made from something they have deep inside them – a desire, a dream, a vision,” Kirk said.

Ned just stared.

“Muhammud Ali. I can quote, too.” Kirk stood up and strode over the hut’s window. He couldn’t see anything but stars and a stone wall. A torch was burning just outside the window, streaming red, flickering light into the room.

Suddenly the window was blocked, shutting the stone hut in darkness. Kirk turned so his back was against the wall and he faced the door, or what he thought was the door’s direction. He could hear Ned whimpering on the floor.

The door opened, letting some torchlight in, and shut quickly. Kirk heard the klink of a lantern and the room was suddenly filled with yellow light. It was Faramir’s top lieutenant, opening the doors of closed lantern. He stood tall and straight, glowering down at them, the long lines of his face thrown into harsh relief by the lantern’s light.

“Silence!” he hissed at Ned, who gasped and obeyed.

The Lieutenant set the lantern on the floor, where its light filled the room. “Who is your master, Agents of Mordor?” he asked. “Don’t give me your lies. Tell me of your quest.”

“We’re not—” Ned squeaked.

“I said silence!” the lieutenant snarled. He turned to Kirk. “The Captain was right, you must be very powerful to speak so lightly of the Lidless Eye. Tell me your errand, so I may offer succor.”

Kirk had no idea what succor meant, but Ned’s eyes popped and his mouth opened and closed soundlessly.

“In the name of Morgoth, speak!” the lieutenant hissed.

“I won’t say,” Kirk said, hoping he sounded strong and heroic, not stubborn and stupid.

“But it was successful, I deem,” the lieutenant went on. “Such arrogance does not follow failure. I could find use for such … dedication.”

Baffled, Kirk looked at Ned. He had no idea what this guy was talking about, but if he was talking about using Kirk, then maybe he wouldn’t kill him. “Um, how can I help you?”

“A message, a simple message only for Denethor. He may be the Steward of Gondor, but Mordor’s arm is long and reaches into his unguarded mind. Fertile soil indeed to sow ruin and despair.”

This wasn’t helping Kirk at all. Who the heck was Denture? What was Condor? A big bird? This guy didn’t sound like any loyal lieutenant. Kirk didn’t think this guy was a friend of Farmer at all. He was a bad guy, Kirk suddenly realized, and he thought Kirk was a bad guy, too.

“Well?” the lieutenant asked. “Will you serve our master or will you die?”

Kirk swallowed. Another football quote popped into his mind: “Winners don’t wait for chances, they take them.”

“What is your message?” Kirk asked. Ned squeaked and stared.

“Only this, a short word for the Steward’s Captain of the Guard.” the lieutenant’s voice fell to a whisper. “Watch for a Halfling, a thief who has stolen a ring, this least of rings, that Sauron fancies. Capture this Halfling and this ring, and untold rewards shall be yours.”

Kirk stared at him, his own mouth open. A Halfling with a ring? Was this message in code?

“Do you understand, or are you witless, like this one here?” He waved a hand at Ned, who was still sitting on the floor.

Kirk rolled an agonized eye at Ned, who immediately stood up. “Watch for a Halfling,” Ned recited. “a thief who has stolen a ring, this least of rings, that Sauron fancies. Capture this Halfling and this ring, and untold rewards shall be yours.”

“Well spoken,” said the lieutenant. “I will spare you after all and you shall accompany him. Arrogance and strength are not enough,” he told Kirk. “I charge you both with this quest. I depend on you to approach the Captain of the Guard alone and identify yourselves with the name of Morgoth, the Valar whom we most revere.”

Was this really happening? Kirk asked himself silently. Was this freaky soldier guy letting him and Ned go so they could play carrier pigeon for this story’s villain? The lieutenant was looking hard at him, and Kirk had no choice but to stand there and look steeped in evil.

Ned was standing as well, and now he bowed low. “We shall not disappoint,” he told the lieutenant. “We pledge to you in the name of Morgoth.”

Kirk was impressed and even the lieutenant blinked.

“See that you don’t,” he said sternly. “Count to five hundred, after I depart, then leave this place. Turn right and follow the south wall. Two horses will be waiting outside the gate.”

“What about the sentries?” Kirk asked.

“Leave them to me,” the lieutenant said. He closed his lantern doors again, leaving them in darkness, then slipped out the door.

“Surely we cannot aid the evil in the world,” Ned whispered.

“We can pretend to, anyway,” Kirk said. “Or would you like to stay here?”

Precisely 500 seconds later (Ned counted them with annoying precision), the two men crept out of the stone hut and along the wall. Two sentries stood by the wall, but either they’d been bribed by the lieutenant or they had terrible eyesight, for neither moved an inch as Kirk and Ned sneaked by. Or tried to sneak by – Ned started shaking the minute he saw the sentries and his teeth chattered loud enough to wake the dead. Kirk, who was a little nearsighted in the dark, bumped into a wall and knocked over a barrel. Kirk hoped they wouldn’t have to do much of this secret agent stuff — they were terrible at it.

The two horses were waiting and it took three tries to get Ned on his horse without immediately falling off. They started at a slow walk, to get Ned accustomed to riding. That didn’t stop the librarian from whining, or falling off every few feet, until Kirk said he was ready to just gallop ahead at full speed and leave Ned there to be found by Farmer’s soldiers in the daylight.

“Faramir,” Ned corrected, but he took the hint, and from that point they went much faster. Minas Tirith glowed white like a beacon across the fields.

They rode in silence to the stone wall, where they dismounted and led their horses through the gate. “We’ll go on foot for a while,” Kirk said. “Rest the horses.”

“Fine.” Ned sounded relieved.

More silence. The moon had set and only the stars were out, the sky an enormous black bowl lit with tiny lights, like someone had sprinkled salt on a black velvet cloth. Kirk hadn’t seen a sky like this since their only family camping trip. They went to Yosemite for a week. Darcy spent most of the days in the tent with a severe migraine headache. London, then 5, swore he heard a bear just an hour after they arrived and refused to leave the car. The nights were beautiful though, Kirk remembered, even though he was missing the divisional playoffs: Packers vs. 49ers. Kirk sighed.

“I’m uncomfortable with this,” Ned said suddenly.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Kirk snapped. “Ride or don’t ride, but I won’t listen to any more whining. Or would you rather be back in that hut?”

“No, I don’t mean that, although my feet …” his voice trailed off. “I’m speaking of our purpose here, serving the malevolent evil that haunts this world.”

“Are you kidding?” Kirk asked. “There’s no way we’re serving malevolent evil.”

“Joining forces with the hero’s nemesis rarely bodes well for minor characters, especially in the tired, cliché-ridden fantasy trope we are traveling in. Those who serve evil almost always wind up exposed and defeated and ultimately dead, or perhaps turned into a vampire.”

“We are not serving evil,” Kirk repeated. “What a crazy idea.”

“But we have a message,” Ned persisted. “We have to tell the Evil captain about the Halfling and the ring.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Kirk said. “I think the Hairballs are Halflings, and those were the kids in the movie with the big feet.”

Ned nodded. “It fits. The Halflings leave home with a ring, they are chased by Black Riders. Do you have any idea where they are going?”

“To a volcano,” Kirk said.

The librarian stopped and stared up at Kirk, who had also halted. Ned’s face looked sickly and green, or maybe it was the moonlight. “Why would they go to a volcano?”

Kirk shrugged. “Seemed strange to me too, especially since they were barefoot. Those rocks had to be hot.”

“It does not make sense,” Ned said, walking forward again. “In the usual fantasy cliché, the malevolent evil lives in or near the volcano. The Halflings would be taking the ring _to_ the evil. Why would they do that?”

Kirk shrugged. “Maybe it’s a weapon. It turns into a giant buzzsaw and slices the malevolent evil in half. Or it expands and they throw it over the bad guy’s head and it shrinks and strangles him. Or maybe it will force Mr. Evil to obey them and they say, ‘jump into this volcano!’ and Mr. Evil says ‘Hey, great idea!’”

“You are talking nonsense,” Ned snapped. “And it does not matter why these Halflings are taking this ring to the volcano. We must try not to hurt or hinder their plans in any way. You cannot deliver that message, Kirk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: Kirk and Ned enter Minas Tirith, and Kirk must make an important choice about hammers.


	9. Minas Tirith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kirk stepped up. It had been determined that he’d do the talking, since, as Ned put it, “apparently, making ignorant, foolish remarks in this land makes you look powerful.”

Kirk sighed. The librarian was right, of course. They couldn’t deliver a bad guy’s message.

“Well, we’ll have to come up with something else to say,” Kirk decided. “Instead of ‘watch for the Hairball and the ring,’ we can say ‘watch for the dwarf and the magic muffin.’”

“You must take this seriously,” Ned said. “The lieutenant will undoubtedly return and expect that message delivered.”

“Well, maybe we can get it a _little_ wrong. You know, a misunderstanding. Watch for a Hairball–”

“Halfling.”

“Watch for a Halfling and a _string_.”

Ned snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Watch for a Halfling with wings.”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Ned said. “We need the goodwill of the city’s evil Captain of the Guard, but I am uncomfortable aiding him.”

“Why do we need the Captain’s goodwill?”

“So we may stay in this Minas Tirith, with access to scrolls.”

“Scrolls?”

“Scrolls. In quasi-medieval fantasy worlds, the denizens wrote on thin sheets of parchment, which they rolled into scrolls. Usually such stories include wise men who sift through these scrolls and find magic spells or important plot points.”

Kirk stopped his horse again and frowned at Ned. “And why do we need scrolls?”

The librarian shrugged. “How else will we find the nature of the Halflings’ quest? Only then can we determine where they are, and therefore where Mrs. Bragg and young London are.”

“Yes!” Kirk grabbed Ned in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground. “That’s how we’ll find them!”

“Put me down! Put me down!” Ned squeaked.

Kirk did so, grinning from ear to ear. “I knew you’d help us out.” His smile faded. “But what about the message?”

Ned sighed. “We have to deliver it. There is no other way.”

“A hammer,” Kirk said suddenly. “A mighty hammer …”

“Forged by magical blacksmiths long ago …” Ned added.

“… that rings with a sound of terror whenever it strikes metal!”

“A hammer that Sauron fancies,” Ned finished. “It is nonsense, of course, clichéd, derivative of Norse Mythology and Thor’s great hammer of the gods. And therefore perfect.”

Kirk nodded. “This will give you time to read through the scrolls and figure out where Darcy and London are. And if that bad guy comes from Oscarville—“

“Osgiliath.”

“Right, what I said. Well, we’ll worry about that when the time comes.”

The two men agreed, and plodded on to Minas Tirith, feeling better about themselves and about each other. 

“We’ll have to warn the Hairball, too,” Kirk said.

“Of course,” Ned agreed.

Even in the twilight, with the sun sinking behind it, the City of Minas Tirith glowed with a white light, just a little pink around the edges. A series of walls marched up to its peak, each wall smaller than the one before, each with its own gate. A tall, thin, white and silver spire rose over all, and white flags snapped in the breeze.

In contrast to the city’s elegant silhouette, a long line of wagons stretched out of the front gate, curving away from Kirk and Ned. Most were filled with women, children and old people, mostly silent, many with tears running down their cheeks. The children were wide-eyed and still, riding in wagons or on horses, or walking with their mothers. A tiny boy cried in his mother’s arms as their wagon passed Kirk and Ned. “Papa!” he screamed. “I want Papa!”

“What’s this?” Kirk asked.

“It’s war,” Ned answered, low. He looked up, past the city. “They’re probably headed for the mountains behind the city.”

They swam against the current of people and pushed through the front gate. Their plan, since the lieutenant’s evil partner was head of the leader’s personal guard, was to climb up through the city and ask for him.

A curling stone street wound up and up, and the men were panting by the time they reached the last gate. A stone arch curved above them, with the carved head of the king on top. Two guards stood before the arch, dressed in black and silver, with big, funny-looking silver helmets that looked like Roman helmets, except the cheek-guards were shaped like bird wings. Each guard wore a silver tree embroidered on his chest, and their swords were long and wicked-looking.

Kirk stepped up. It had been determined that he’d do the talking, since, as Ned put it, “apparently, making ignorant, foolish remarks in this land makes you look powerful.”

“I have a message for your Captain,” Kirk told the nearest guard. “From the lieutenant at Oscar-Osgiliath.”

The guard eyed Kirk and Ned as if determining the best way to chop them up, then nodded shortly. “Follow me.”

His black cape billowing, the guard led them across a white-paved courtyard to a little fountain ringed with white rose bushes. The grass was as green and manicured as a golf-course. Hunched over the fountain’s water like an old man looking for a drink, was a dead tree, white and spindly and sad.

The captain stood before the pool, maybe daydreaming or thinking about his lunch or considering ways to execute messengers, Kirk didn’t know. But he had no doubt this was the captain. His helmet had a big black plume on it, fluffy as a cat’s tail, and he wore a heavy silver chain. He had long black hair tied behind his neck and a strong, noble face. Kirk found it hard to believe such a man would accept any evil message.

“What is this?” the Captain asked, raising a long eyebrow. His eyes were wide and gray – he looked very much like Farmer and his lieutenant.

“I have a message from lieutenant …” Kirk stopped in horror when he realized he didn’t know the man’s name. He lowered his voice as Ned had told him to. “In the name of Morgoth.”

The Captain’s eyes flashed with rage, and Kirk retreated a step. Was this a trick? Did the lieutenant send him here with this message so they’d be executed in Minas Tirith instead?

“How dare you say such a name?” he hissed, so low that Ned couldn’t hear the words and looked at Kirk questioningly.

Kirk’s throat closed and he couldn’t answer, which was probably best. The Captain glanced quickly around then stepped nearer. “Quick, tell me.”

“Watch for a hammer,” Kirk choked out. “Uh, a hammer that Sorry fancies …”

“A hammer?” the Captain’s eyes lost their rage. He stared at Kirk in amazement. “Not the Foe-Hammer that the King of Gondolin once wore?”

“Um, sure,” stammered Kirk.

“Or perhaps Grond, the hammer of the underworld, rumored to be forged in the pits of Mt. Doom?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Well, which is it, man?”

“Ahhhh, the second one,” Kirk stuttered, trying to remember what the second one was. He was no good at this stuff.

The Captain turned and strode to a nearby wall. Kirk looked at Ned, who shrugged slightly. The Captain made a slight movement for Kirk to join him, so Kirk went to stand at the wall and looked down. The green plains spread out a thousand feet below, it seemed, with the long line of people curling around the city. From here he could see Oscarville, a dark point on the curve of the Great River Andy.

“I have heard tales,” the Captain said, “that Glamdring, the Foe-hammer, has fallen into the hands of the wizard Gandalf. So the lieutenant must speak of our Master’s most mighty weapon, Grond, the Hammer of the Underworld.”

“Sure,” Kirk said.

“You are a foreigner, I see.”

“I come from over the Musty Mountains,” Kirk said.

The Captain nodded. “Few have the courage to bear the true name of the Black Foe of the World. I will make you and your companion Knights of the Citadel. I will need true allies in the battle ahead.”

“Um, my friend isn’t so great with the fighting … Captain,” Kirk said. “Do you have a nice library for him?”

“Ah, a scholar.” The Captain’s face lit up. “Of course. We have few who can read the ancient texts. Very useful. It shall be done. There is no room for you in the Guard’s barracks, but I shall give you and the scholar a house – there are many empty houses in the city now. You shall attend the Lord Steward Denethor, and the scholar shall search the archives. Report all he finds to me.” He spared Ned a brief glance. “I dislike scholars, but they are necessary.”

The Captain waved Kirk away and called to the Guard who escorted them. The two silver-helmeted men spoke briefly and Kirk returned to Ned.

“I think it’s all right,” Kirk said. “He bought the hammer bit. Thinks it’s some grand weapon. He’s going to give us a house and you get a job in the library.”

Ned rubbed his hands together. “Better than I expected. What am I looking for?”

“For him? Any evil stuff you can find. For us, we need a map. We need to figure out where Darcy and London are.” Kirk looked over the mountains, wondering. What were they doing? Would he find them in time?

“I have great faith in Miss Darcy,” Ned said. “And London is a fine, resourceful chap. As long as they stay together, we have hope.”

Kirk frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“They have only one catalog card,” Ned said. “They must not separate, for then the one without the card will be cast adrift, unloosed from the story’s plot like a wayward little boat. Without the card, that person would have no hope of ever returning home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: London meets an annoying elf.


	10. River Bruinen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So vulnerable your race is to the elements, the cold and the hot. I must say, if I had your weaknesses, I would be more properly dressed for a swim."

The roar of machinery filled London’s ears as he clung to the slick, shiny black locomotive chugging its way up a snow-topped mountain. A giant moon nearly filled the sky. London was riding on the top of the Polar Express, headed to the North Pole through falling chunks of snow. His clothes were soaked with water, icy winds blasted his face and body, and the noise of the train grew louder and louder ...

London’s eyes popped open. He wasn’t on a train heading to the North Pole, he was in a river, a freezing cold river, with rushing waters that roared louder than any train. He was stuck on the branches of a tree that leaned above the water. His weight forced the branch downward, and waves of foam and icy water washed over him.

“M-m-mom!” he shouted, teeth chattering so bad he could barely form the words. “M-m-mom!”

He remembered nothing after her hand slipped away as they fell into the flood. Did he hit his head? Why was he dreaming of his favorite movie? _Where was Mom?_

Then he saw a little bedraggled figure just below — not Mom, but someone else stranded by the flood. The figure clung to a sharp rock sticking out the river. The rock was a little to London’s right, and he saw steep rapids that disappeared over a cliff. _Mom!_

The flood kept pounding and the foam kept rising, and London thought he saw little white horses on the crest of each wave. The figure below lost its grip on the slippery rock, then found it, then lost it again.

“Hey!” he screamed, and edged further away from the riverbank, along the branches. The figure looked up and jumped somehow, suddenly they were closer now, hanging off his branch, although that seemed impossible. He stretched out his hand and grasped the other’s and pulled, and miraculously the stranded little person was here with him.

The person was a girl, London realized, looking about his own age, with wide green eyes and a pointed chin. Her wet hair streamed behind her ears. Her pointed ears. An elf!

She was shouting something London couldn’t hear, but her intent was unmistakable, and extremely logical. She wanted to get off the branch and out of the icy water onto the bank, and that sounded like a good idea to London.

The two children crawled along the branches toward the bank. London nearly fell into the water before he could reach the tree, and he slipped on the slippery branch and fell on the ground with a thump.

Laughing, the girl jumped down beside him. She was no taller than he, dressed in wet, tight-fitting clothes of green and brown. A bow was slung over her back. (How could she keep it in the flood?) London sat on the ground, blowing on his blue hands, teeth chattering. The girl didn’t even look cold. She bent down to peer at him.

“You are a Son of Man,” she said. “Truly is our family fated to encounter your race.”

London was too cold to answer and still processing the fact that he’d met an elf girl. And where was Mom?

“The stranger should name himself first,” the girl went on, “and you are in our land now.”

“L-London.”

“You shake with fear, yes? Do not be afraid, for you are in my grandfather’s land and your deed will please even his cool heart.”

“I’m not afraid,” London said indignantly. “I’m cold.”

“Of course. So vulnerable your race is to the elements, the cold and the hot. I must say, if I had your weaknesses, I would be more properly dressed for a swim. You must think more carefully on your choices, Son of Man. So hasty you are.”

“I wasn’t being hasty!” Great, London thought, he’d known this girl for two minutes and she’d already called him rude, scared and stupid. Elves were a lot more fun in books. “The flood just ...”

She nodded. “Ah, it was I who was hasty. I apologize. Come, let me bring you to the warmth of my grandfather’s house.”

“I c-c-can’t,” London chattered, although he wanted nothing more that moment than a fire and a hot chocolate. “My mother.”

“Your mother?” The girl jumped to her feet again. “Your mother was in the flood?”

London nodded. He felt like crying, but there was no way he was sniffling in front of this elf girl.

The girl looked at the river, her eyes bright, head tilted to the side as if listening. “I sense an evil presence in the river, shadows almost, fading away as we speak. I see the bodies of horses, bred in evil, now dead.”

She looked to the left, where the river ran into the rapids.

“There was a presence,” she continued, “much like your own, but now gone. But not dead ... Cold. Fear. Worry. Determination. The presence is gone now, but not dead.”

“How do you know that?” London asked, amazed.

She looked at him again. “This is my grandfather’s land, his river. We are one with our land, it is us, and we sense any new presence. This is why we must bring you to my grandfather. If he doesn’t know you are here, he soon will.”

“Who is your grandfather?” London gasped.

She had taken his hand now and was pulling him into the trees. “Elrond, son of Eleandil,” she said. “I take you to ...”

“Rivendell,” London breathed.

She stopped and stared. “You know of Rivendell? And of my grandfather? I thought we were forgotten by the race of men.”

“My mother, she’s okay?”

“She has left the river.”

“Is she here? In your land?”

Again she stood, head tilted. “No. Now come, quickly.”

“Wait!” London cried. She halted again, looking a little annoyed. “I don’t know your name.”

The girl frowned. “Oh, it is I who am rude. I demand your name but do not give my own. I am Elwing, named for my great-grandmother. A very great name, for she saved a Silmaril from the destruction of the Havens of Sirion. I hope to live up to her name with similar adventures.”

“What’s a sirloin?”

“A Silmaril. It is odd you know of Elrond, and yet not about the Silmarils in the Iron Crown.”

“What Iron Crown?”

They walking quickly through the woods now, through invisible paths that only Elwing could see. The scene felt quiet, peaceful, like hiking through a national park. Walking warmed London’s blood and he was determined to keep up with her.

“The Iron Crown,” Elwing whispered, “Sat on the head of the mightiest of evil ones. He stole precious gems, called the Silmarils to put on his crown. These were stolen back, and to punish him, the Valar turned his Iron Crown into a collar, and cast him into the eternal darkness of night. There is talk that his servant, the greatest evil that now walks Middle Earth--”

“Sauron,” London said.

She stared at him in surprise. “Yes. There is talk that Sauron made a second Iron Crown, not as powerful as the first, of course, but still powerful, which Sauron himself cannot wear, as he is shapeless. But who wears it, we do not know.”

“How do you know all this?” London asked.

Elwing smiled. “I hear. I listen. I have the Sight. I know much that is hidden from me. My father left Rivendell ten days ago and my mother would not say why, but I knew. He was riding against great enemies, and I guessed there would be battle at the Ford of Brunien. So I sneaked away to watch, but the torrent was too strong and I was swept away.”

She led London through what looked like a solid wall of bushes, but turned out to have a little crooked opening. Then she stopped and looked at London again.

“My grandfather will be pleased that you risked yourself to save me,” she said. “But truly I was not in danger.”

London didn’t agree. She didn’t look so calm slipping off that rock and he said so.

She just laughed. “The river would never harm me, nor you, nor your mother. Only evil.”

He felt relieved to hear that. Mom was okay, then, on the other side of the river. He casually slipped a hand inside his shirt and felt the card there, inside its pouch. Mom said to stay with the story if they separated. That meant he had to stay with Elwing, no matter how annoying she was. What a know-it-all. She didn’t know everything.

“You don’t know everything,” he told her.

Elwing laughed. “Really, you think you can teach me, Son of Man?”

“Do you know what your dad was chasing?”

“Dad?”

London sighed. “Father.”

“A great evil.”

“But do you know _what_ that evil was?”

For the first time, Elwing looked uncertain. “ _Evil_ evil.”

“You don’t know!” London crowed.

“Well, you don’t either.”

“I do!”

“What is it then?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” London said. “Um, dressed in black.”

Elwing snickered. “All evil minions are dressed in black.”

“They have to wear black cloaks and boots because they have no bodies.”

“No bodies,” Elwing repeated. “That’s why their presence was so ... Strange. Like shadows. What are they?”

“Nazgul,” London whispered. “Ringwraiths. The Nine.”

Elwing stopped walking and stared. “What are Nazgul?”

London snickered. “Are you sure you want me to teach you? I mean, aren’t I a simple Son of Man or something? Maybe you should ask your mother.”

The girl just glared. “You will tell me what my father is hunting.”

“I hope he didn’t run into them. They’re really bad. They used to be kings, but then Sauron gave them magic rings. Turned them into these ghost guys.”

“Ringwraiths,” Elwing said. Suddenly she grabbed London’s hand. “We have no time for your slow ways. Come!”

She jumped into the air, and upon landing began to run. London ran too, but soon his heart was pounding and he felt his lungs would explode, but still she pulled on his hand. “Faster!” she shouted.

Just as London was about to collapse, she stopped and pointed. “There,” she said, “is the Valley of Rivendell.”

London stared. The valley was long and narrow, shaped like a V. Both trees and buildings glittered in the sunshine; it was hard to tell where the trees ended and the buildings began. Slender silver walkways crisscrossed the valley and London could see small, slender figures moving between houses. Music echoed through the valley as if there was a stereo speaker in every tree. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

“We must be careful,” Elwing whispered. “It wouldn’t do to be seen. Follow me.” She slipped into a tree, or at least it looked like she slipped into a tree. There was a door in the trunk, and London had to hustle to make sure he made it in before it closed shut.

“Follow me,” she repeated. The white stone on her forehead glowed in the darkness, making her look like one of those miners with lights on their helmet. 

“I thought you lived here,” London said. “Why can’t we come in through the front door?”

Elwing stopped. “Jump,” she said.

“Jump where?” It all looked dark to London.

She pointed down into the blackness. London didn’t like the look of it, but he wasn’t going to say so. There was nothing to do but jump.

It kind of felt like that part in Alice in Wonderland, where Alice went down the rabbit hole and fell and fell, past shelves full of books and bottles, except London couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything. There was no indication that Elwing was above him, he looked up and didn’t see her light. He couldn’t help but think this was all a big trick, that what these Elves did with strangers was get a bunch of info out of them and then throw them into a bottomless hole. Maybe he’d fall forever until he starved and never see the sun or his parents again. London was starting to get seriously scared.

“Elwing!” he shouted.

There was no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEXT UP: London doesn't want a flower.


End file.
